


So That These Coals May Become Fire

by commoncomitatus



Category: The New Legends of Monkey (TV)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, F/F, F/M, Feelings, Grief/Mourning, Multi, Slow Burn Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-07-10 19:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 71,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19910680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commoncomitatus/pseuds/commoncomitatus
Summary: Post-S1. When our heroes come into possession of an unhatched egg, Tripitaka finds herself caught between two stubborn, emotional gods: Sandy, who will do whatever it takes to protect the thing, and Monkey, who is just as desperate to get rid of it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic ended up in a very different place to where it started. I still have no idea what happened, but I apologise in advance.
> 
> Warnings: See the tags, and 'grief/mourning' in particular. Death is a major theme, discussed and dealt with at some length.
> 
> Written for Round 10 of [Hurt/Comfort Bingo](https://hc-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) \-- prompt: 'touch-starved'.

***

Sandy emerges from the water like a mythical being.

Glinting and glittering in the subterranean half-light, she moves like moonlight, flowing and fluid, graceful in a way that often eludes her on dry land. She moves like a creature completely in her element, a creature who has spent a lifetime upside-down, disoriented and dizzy, and who has taken her first breath in a hundred years. She moves like she _belongs_ , like she is stepping out of a world all her own.

Watching her, Tripitaka is mesmerised.

She steps up onto the shore, and there the moment ends. Her balance shifts as she leaves the water behind, and she stumbles, struggling to reorient herself to solid ground, to oxygen, to having to keep her legs under her. There is fire in her eyes, only half-hidden by the sodden strands of her hair; it flares and burns in harmony with her movements, bringing light to her tired, twisting face.

“If you _ever_ do that again,” she rasps. “I will…”

And she falls to her knees, gasping and choking, like she’s drowning. 

It is a dreadful sound, like the grinding groan of a rusted hinge. Her chest heaves, lungs straining inside of her, desperately trying to figure out which element to reject: the water or the air, neither or both.

Tripitaka thinks she can breathe both. She’s mostly sure.

But she doesn’t know.

Sandy has never been underwater for quite this long before.

And she doesn’t—

An explosive, razor-edged fit of coughing, and Tripitaka dashes to her side. It is instinct driving her now, instinct and affection and just a touch of panic; it makes her break into a run, makes her skid to a halt, slipping on the wet stone, crouching urgently beside her. Instinct, drawing all the breath out of her lungs as well, until she can’t breathe either, until she sounds just as ragged and raw as Sandy, until her chest feels ready to capsize in sympathy.

“Sandy?”

It is the same instinct that makes her reach out. A hand on her shoulder, weighted with worry and warmth—

And Sandy jerks back, hissing, growling, snarling, transformed in the blink of an eye into something wild and dangerous.

“No, _no_ , no…” Her breath, driven out of her in fear and confusion, becomes less laboured. “No!”

Tripitaka pulls away automatically. “Are you okay?”

It takes Sandy a moment to respond, to come back to herself enough to form words, sentences, thoughts. A moment, as usual, for her mind to reorient itself as well, as disjointed and unaccustomed to breathing as her body.

“Fine.” She coughs again, not so violently now. “Stay _back_.”

“Okay. Okay.” Tripitaka obeys, rising slowly to her feet and retreating step by step, stopping only when Sandy’s posture grows a little less tense, a little less feral. “Can you breathe?”

Sandy nods, and the heaving of her chest slows a little more in affirmation. She’s hunched over a large, cumbersome bundle; Tripitaka recognises the curved prongs of Pigsy’s rake and the smooth iron-cast length of Monkey’s staff, and she smiles with relief.

“Mission accomplished?” Pigsy asks, shuffling his feet from a safe, nervous distance.

Sandy lifts her head, dripping water, and the fire sparks again behind her eyes. Her breathing grows shallow once more, but it’s not from exertion this time. Adjusting with her usual lightning speed to being back in the air, it is emotion, not distress, that stalls her breath now.

“As I said,” she growls, “If you _ever_ do that again…”

So saying, she rears back, summons all her strength, and hurls the rake at his head.

“Uh.” Pigsy catches the weapon with some difficulty, fumbling and characteristically clumsy. “Thanks. I think.”

His expression is tense and sober, but there is only the faintest trace of guilt behind the discomfort. Not nearly enough, Tripitaka thinks, considering that his whole situation is all his fault.

The situation being this:

They’ve been underground for a few days now, following a winding subterranean network of caverns and tunnels in the hope of passing undisturbed through a particularly demon-heavy stretch of land. The idea was entirely Monkey’s, and has, until now, proven to be one of his better ones. Filled with lakes and streams, there is an endless supply of water and sustenance, and the ground has been eroded to mostly-smoothness; even Tripitaka can hold her balance down here, unhindered by the near-constant darkness.

It’s been pretty comfortable, all things considered. Between Monkey, who claims to know the layout of these parts like the back of his hand, and Sandy, who could follow any body of water to its source without a thought, their progress has been easy, efficient, and mostly effortless.

Until now.

Specifically, until last night.

Until Pigsy fell asleep in the middle of his watch, and jolted awake just in time to stand helplessly by as a group of slinking salamander-like creatures slipped back into the lake with their weapons and half of their supplies.

His entirely-too-nonchalant “Well, what do you want _me_ to do about it?” endeared him to precisely no-one.

Tripitaka suspects that she and Monkey are rather angrier about the situation than Sandy is, for all the fire in her eyes. Sandy has always been the quietest one of them, the most contemplative, and she has always deferred to reason above all else even when it ends poorly for her. 

She didn’t exactly volunteer for the task of retrieving their weapons, but in lieu of any other options it fell to her just the same; neither Monkey nor Pigsy were particularly inclined to argue when she pointed out that she was the only one of them — god or otherwise — who could survive underwater for more than a few minutes.

Tripitaka was not quite as complacent as they were about the whole affair, but with the shortcomings of her frail human body there wasn’t much she could offer except moral support.

She’s long since lost track of how long Sandy was actually down there, plumbing the depths in search of their stolen weapons, but it’s been long enough that shafts of sunlight have been glinting for some time through the cracks in the ceiling, that the surface of the water seems to sparkle, touched by the sun even at its darkest points.

Mid-morning, at least. Which means she was down there for hours.

 _Hours_.

Down there in the lightless, lifeless lake, all on her own, stalking and preying and hunting, fighting off unknown enemies to reclaim their property. Alone, with no backup, no support or reinforcements, no-one to talk to, no-one to hear if she called for help, no-one to—

No-one.

Alone. Completely.

Tripitaka knows, perhaps better than the others, just how heavy a weight isolation is for Sandy. She flatters herself that has a pretty good idea of what she must have been feeling down there in the endless emptiness, her friends all out of reach, nothing to hold onto but their faith in her talents, their hope and fear bearing down on her head, a pressure far more powerful than the water shoving her further down into the deep and the dark.

Tripitaka knows exactly what those words — _alone_ and _lost_ and _darkness_ — mean to Sandy, who for so much of her life knew no other words at all. She would not blame her at all, she thinks sadly, if she were ten times as angry.

She’s not, though. She’s just cold, wet, and tired.

“Monkey.” Her voice is still unpleasantly hoarse, but she has softened considerably now. She tosses the staff at him, rather more gently than she did with Pigsy, then adds, “You should consider teaching your cloud how to swim.”

Monkey snorts, catching the weapon one-handed and shrinking it down with his usual flourish. “I’ll put it on my to-do list,” he quips, sticking it in his hair. “Now go and dry off.”

Sandy doesn’t move. She’s still on her knees, bracing the weight of her body on one arm and hugging herself tightly with the other; she’s starting to shiver as the cold seeps into her bones, but something in her posture says that’s not the reason for the immobility.

She’s holding something, Tripitaka realises belatedly, wrapped up carefully in her cloak and clutched close to her chest like it’s something very precious; from the look on her face, anguished and struggling, Tripitaka wonders for a moment if she’s nursing a lost limb.

Then she realises they’re all accounted for, and feels like a fool.

Still, she frowns, inching closer again. “Sandy? Is something—”

“No.”

“Okay.” It doesn’t exactly set her mind at ease. “So, uh, can I—”

“ _No_.”

And she rears back again, as primal and feral as before, as wild as she was the day they first met, a god driven mad by the darkness and the girl who pretended so hard, for so long, to be a boy.

Tripitaka is still not used to not being a boy, in truth, and she’s not sure how to respond to anything without having to take the pretence into consideration.

Months and months of dishonesty and deception and deceit, months of pretending to be someone — something — else, of willing herself to become that way, to never let her guard down, to never show her true face, her true self, to never show her _truth_.

Now that she’s finally allowed to be herself again, she finds that she’s almost forgotten who that is.

It’s been a big adjustment, settling back into her own, and she’s still not sure she’s completely there.

It makes it more of a challenge than it should be, connecting with her gods. More so, almost, than it was when she was pretending; so focused on deception, on being _Tripitaka_ , she had little time to spare on trying to be anything else. Connecting came more easily because she didn’t have to make the effort; now, with nothing else to think about, it comes much harder. And with Sandy, in particular, who has always been disjointed and difficult to fathom, it feels almost like walking a tightrope.

She wonders if the old Tripitaka — the one who wasn’t her — would know how to react now. She wonders if he would understand the edginess, the bared teeth and the snarling, the wildness blazing like fever behind her eyes. Old instincts, as dark as the depths she’s just crawled out of, as dark as the ones she once called home. After the time they’ve spent together, walking and basking in the light, Tripitaka had hoped she was finally starting to let those old urges go.

She believed that. She really, really did.

But Sandy is hissing at her now, snarling and snapping her teeth, looking so much like that wild creature who once trapped her in a sewer and put a blade to her throat, and Tripitaka doesn’t know how to reach her.

She doesn’t know which part of her is supposed to be good at this. She doesn’t know if it’s a part she still has, or one of the parts she cast away, thrown to the wind with her false identity.

Does Sandy still feel the same reverence for her, she wonders. Would she be able to stop her in her tracks now, with a whispered word, as she did in those depths and that darkness, by hiding her face and speaking her name.

She takes a breath, readying herself to try.

Stops, interrupted before she can even get a word out, as Monkey steps forward, sighing heavily and rolling his eyes.

“You stole something,” he guesses, “didn’t you?”

Tripitaka blinks. Then she looks again at Sandy’s carefully-bundled cloak, and all the different pieces click into place. 

“Oh,” she realises.

Sandy, meanwhile, is scowling and hunching her shoulders, comically defensive.

“Of course not,” she says, pouting. “I don’t _steal_.”

“Any more,” Pigsy chimes in unhelpfully. “As I recall, you stole quite a lot back when—”

“I _reclaimed_ ,” Sandy snarls, clearly still annoyed with him, “from a tyrant who _stole_ from her people.”

“Right.” He coughs. “Uh, right.”

And just like that, he loses interest in the conversation.

Monkey, of course, is not so easily deterred.

“ _What_ ,” he says, voice thickening with impatience, “did you _steal_?”

Sandy turns her scowl on him.

“They’re the ones who stole things,” she grumbles, “not me. And they’re dead now, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.” She cuts a brief, guilt-stricken glance at Tripitaka, then adds, rather more subdued, “They didn’t want me to reclaim our weapons, so I…”

She trails off, looking unhappy and ashamed.

Tripitaka tries as best she can to keep her expression neutral, to not show too much of her distaste. Being on the quest has taught her the unfortunate necessity of combat — of mortal combat, even — and she’s slowly learning to tamp down the natural instincts of a young girl raised by monks in the way of peace.

Sandy in particular is still a little too quick to look to violence as a solution, but now is not the time to chasten her for that; she was entirely alone down there, isolated and surrounded by heavy water, forced to defend herself and their things against unknown assailants, possibly in large numbers. Tripitaka can’t blame her for taking whatever steps she needed to make sure she wasn’t the one who ended up dead.

“It’s all right,” she says, because Sandy is still staring at her, eyes wide with the fear of disappointing her. “You did what you had to do. Carry on.”

Sandy nods, relief flooding her features, then starts inching her way backwards again, putting space between herself and the rest of them, as though anticipating a confrontation.

“You can’t steal from the dead,” she says to Monkey. “And they had many things. Caverns and chambers all filled with treasures and trinkets that they had stolen. I only took back what was ours.”

“Sure you did.” Monkey rolls his eyes again, then points an accusatory finger at her cloak. “So what’s _that_ , then?”

Sandy glares daggers at him, the steel of her eyes framed behind the soaking silver of her hair. It’s not exactly the most intimidating look, and even if it was Monkey has never been the kind to back down from a fight he’s sure he can win. He counters her glare with a smirk, folding his arms across his chest, matching her stubbornness easily with his own.

Not even Sandy is a match for Monkey when he sets his mind to something, and she knows it as well as he does. Slowly, grudgingly, she surrenders, ducking her head and carefully unwrapping her bundled cloak.

It is—

At first, Tripitaka can’t really tell _what_ it is.

It looks like an orb of some kind, its smooth surface the colour of moonlight. It’s around the size of a large melon, oddly shaped but perfectly intact, and Tripitaka’s first thought is of demons and magic, the thrum and crackle of something dangerous, something deadly and destructive and—

Panic kicks in her chest, unwitting memories surging to the surface. She recalls the Jade Palace, recalls the monastery that was once her own, and the reflex rises up sharp and keen in her chest, to slap the thing out of Sandy’s hands and yell at her to throw it back into the water.

She’s already stepping forward, readying to do just that, when she’s interrupted by Pigsy, who is shaking his head — buried in his hands — with utter despair.

“Tell me you _didn’t_ …”

Sandy growls again, lower.

“ _You_ ,” she tells him, “are in no position to criticise _anyone_.”

“Fair point.” He wisely shuts his mouth again. “Carry on.”

Monkey, meanwhile, is not about to be sulked or intimidated into silence. He’s standing there, arms still crossed, staring at the object with a mix of disgust and horror.

“No,” he says, in a tone that broaches absolutely no argument. “Absolutely not.”

Sandy blinks at him, feigning ignorance. “You don’t—”

“I said _no_.” His eyes are dark, a warning on the verge of becoming a threat. “Get rid of it.”

Tripitaka furrows her brow, no less confused. “What is it? An orb?”

They all turn to stare at her. Monkey derisive and annoyed, Pigsy not even trying to hide his amusement, and Sandy, protective and broody, huddled over the strange object like it’s—

 _Oh_.

“—an egg,” Pigsy says, rather too late to be helpful. “It’s an egg, you bloody goofball.”

Tripitaka flushes furiously. “I can see that now, Pigsy, thank you.”

Sandy ignores them both. “I couldn’t leave it there,” she says, squaring her jaw. “Those things are thieves and hoarders, perhaps murderers as well. They stole this creature from its home, just as they steal everything else they see, and stashed it away in the depths with our weapons, with all their other trinkets. They probably didn’t know or care that it was alive.” She’s shivering again, harder now, and the words are shot through with tremors. “It’s a miracle the spirit still lives in it at all. I wasn’t about to let it be extinguished in that place.”

Monkey rolls his eyes, predictably unmoved. “Good for you,” he grunts. “Now say goodbye to the stupid thing, because we’re not keeping it.”

“It has no-one else!” Her voice cracks, pitching jaggedly. “We can’t just—”

And just like that, Tripitaka understands.

She steps between them, hasty but not really eager. She doesn’t want to startle Sandy again, and she definitely doesn’t want to be on the receiving end if those protective instincts surge to the fore. Sandy is dangerous enough on a good day; like this, freezing cold, exhausted, and upset, she is easily the most unpredictable of them all. Tripitaka has seen too many times what happens to people who cross her when she’s feeling like this, and she doesn’t want her own name added to the list of casualties.

She keeps a few paces between them, keeps arms spread wide, showing that she’s unarmed and harmless, and she doesn’t speak until Sandy nods her permission.

“Sandy,” she says, slowly and carefully. Sandy flinches briefly, but the name seems to bring her back a little, and she follows up with another nod. “You’re soaked through, and frozen half to death. Before we discuss this, you need to get out of those wet clothes and in front of a fire.”

Sandy opens her mouth to argue, then shuts it again as her teeth start to chatter, conveniently proving Tripitaka’s point. “Perhaps…”

“Right.” Tripitaka counts out a few breaths, waits for Sandy’s shoulders to slump, then presses on, “So how about we deal with that now, and deal with this—” She gestures vaguely at the egg “—once you’re warm and dry and not about to drop from exhaustion?”

Sandy pouts again, but she doesn’t argue. A lifetime of survival has made her incredibly durable, especially when it comes to being cold and wet, but even she has to acknowledge the truth in Tripitaka’s words; her skin is ice-white and her lips are starting to turn blue. Even at her most stubborn, she can’t deny the need to get some heat into her body, and fast.

“Fine,” she mutters at last. “That first. But don’t let him take it.”

“I won’t,” Tripitaka promises. “You can hold onto it, if you like.”

She does, of course, as best she can while peeling off layers of soaked clothing.

It’s actually rather impressive, the way she keeps one hand on the egg at all times, caressing its smooth surface even as she fumbles with the straps and buckles of her clothes; her outfit is a complicated mess even at the best of times, so it speaks volumes of her stubbornness that she manages to strip one-handed. She holds fast to the thing, wilful to the end, and when Pigsy holds out a blanket she covers it before she covers herself.

Tripitaka watches, biting her tongue, and worries.

*

She waits a little while, out of respect, before confronting her.

Sandy doesn’t move once Pigsy places her in front of the fire, and she doesn’t stop shivering either. She just sits there by herself, numb and sort of shell-shocked, staring into the embers like she’s scrying for answers.

Tripitaka doesn’t really want to disturb her at all, but she doesn’t want Monkey to be the one to broach this. He is angry and frustrated, and she is defensive and fragile; letting them go at each other now would be disastrous for everyone involved.

So she waits a little while, long enough for some of the distance to fade out of Sandy’s pale, haunted eyes, then she sits herself down beside her, as casual as she can manage with her heart thundering.

Sandy doesn’t look up. Her throat moves as she wets her blue lips, still staring blindly into the fire. “Tripitaka.”

“Hey.” She wants to touch her, but she knows better than to try. “Feeling any better?”

Sandy, of course, ignores the question entirely. “I won’t let him discard it,” she says, hugging the egg close to her chest.

Tripitaka sighs. “I know.”

“I _won’t_ , Tripitaka.”

“I _know_.” She takes a deep breath, steadying herself; she did not come here to argue. “You wouldn’t have salvaged it if you didn’t want to… that is, if you weren’t hoping to…”

“No.” Even seated by the fire, there is a jagged, splintered-ice hoarseness to her voice. “You misunderstand.”

Tripitaka frowns. “Do I?”

“You think I wish to adopt this creature, yes?”

“Um. Don’t you?”

“Of course not.” There is no affection in her, no warmth or tenderness; she sounds numb and sad. “We have far more important things to do; we can ill afford such a distraction.”

“Okay.” It is difficult, gauging her feelings when she won’t meet her eye. “Then what?”

“When it is stronger,” Sandy says, “we can find others of its kind and return it to them. But until then…”

She trails off, closing her eyes. Tripitaka’s hands twitch in her lap; she wants so badly to touch her. “Okay.”

“I will not see it disposed of or cast aside while its spirit yet lives.” She’s shaking again, but it’s different from the frozen tremors wracking her bones. “Let Monkey say what he will, I don’t care. I will not allow him to discard it like—”

She stops.

Tripitaka’s heart does too.

“—like an unwanted rag,” she finishes in a whisper.

And there it is, confirmed by the way Sandy flinches: the thing they haven’t talked about, the thing Tripitaka foolishly thought they wouldn’t need to talk about.

Sandy’s eyes are trembling, bright and wet in the firelight, and her whole body is quaking, shivers twisted into shudders under the weight of her emotions. Tripitaka knows she won’t ever say the word that still haunts her, but she can hear it, she can feel it: _abandonment_ , a rope pulled taut between them, threatening to strangle them both.

“Don’t,” Sandy chokes, ragged and desperate. “Please.”

Tripitaka’s heart starts again, each pulse a burst of pain.

“Okay.” She holds up her hands, surrender and submission, gentle, gentle, gentle. Handle With Care: it’s the only way to deal with Sandy when she’s like this. “Okay. If this is really that important to you, we’ll figure it out somehow.”

Sandy doesn’t relax even a little. “Promise.”

“I promise.” She says it without hesitation, drawn in by the hurt she sees behind those pale, frozen-water eyes. “We’ll find a way, okay? We’ll find a way to make this work.”

Finally, achingly slowly, the tension bleeds out of Sandy’s body, the shudders returning to shivers, to simplicity.

“Good.” Her breath rattles in her chest, relief and possibly some lingering water. “Thank you.”

The words resonate, meaningful. Tripitaka realises that this is the first time anyone has them, that no-one has yet thought to thank her for venturing down into the depths and retrieving their weapons, for once again hurling herself into the path of misery and pain so that the others might not suffer too badly for their mistakes.

It’s not the first time this has happened, Tripitaka recalls, with a twinge of shame, but at least this time she sees the act for what it is: sacrifice, selflessness, suffering. It’s a lot more more than she understood the last time.

The last time—

She closes her eyes, struck and stung by the unwanted memory. Sandy walking away, her lean body seeming to glow in the moonlight, anger lengthening her stride, features blank and numb, swallowing down the pain, the betrayal, the terrible memories, swallowing it all down and resigning herself once more to the same awful fate.

 _Abandoned_.

Discarded, once again, by the person she’d poured herself into. Discarded, once again, like an unwanted rag.

That…

They really need to talk about it.

Tripitaka knows that Sandy doesn’t want to. She doesn’t particularly want to either. Neither of them has much talent for talking through the things that make them uncomfortable.

But this…

Well.

Tripitaka was raised by the monks of the resistance. She knows a metaphor when she sees one.

Sandy is hugging the egg in her arms, rocking it back and forth like she’s trying to soothe it. Or possibly like she’s trying to soothe herself. The fire doesn’t seem to be doing much to disperse the ashen pallour of her skin, the tremors in her bones; perhaps this is the only heat or comfort she can find.

Tripitaka wants to touch her, maybe even to try and warm her, but she knows the contact wouldn’t be welcome. Looking at her, lost and distanced, she wonders if there’s any part of her that would be welcome right now, if there is any part of her that Sandy still trusts to come close.

Sandy would follow her to the ends of the world, even now. 

But _trust_ …

Tripitaka sets the thought aside. They do need to talk about it, that much is clear, but not yet. Not while Sandy is still soaked and frozen, not while she’s biting down on her blue lips, desperate to keep her heart inside. Later, when she’s recovered, when Tripitaka has talked Monkey into letting her keep her precious egg, when she has proven herself worthy of her trust.

Even just a small piece of it.

“We’ll hold camp for a while,” she says, climbing back up to her feet. “Give you time to get warm and dry, recuperate from what you went through down there.”

“I don’t need time,” Sandy says to the fire. “I need…”

But apparently she doesn’t know what she needs, because she shakes her head and lets the sentence die unfinished.

*

Monkey is not happy when she tells him about the egg.

He’s already tense and moody, even before she brings it up, his brow furrowed and his jaw pale with tension, like maybe some part of him knew this was coming and was bracing for it.

Tripitaka recognises the storm on his face, the cocktail of frustration and poorly-suppressed worry. He doesn’t often admit to feeling the latter, but he has let it show rather more often since the Jade Mountain. One too many near-misses, she supposes, pushing his emotions too close to the surface. He’s watched her wither away under the influence of poison and saved her from falling to her death, all within a couple of weeks.

She wonders if he’s realising now, for the first time, just how fragile she is — how fragile everyone is, even his fellow gods — next to him.

Whatever the reason, he doesn’t even try to hide his anxiety when she tells him about the egg. His eyes harden, thundercloud-dark, and he mutters, in a strangled sort of voice, “No.”

Tripitaka sighs. She didn’t expect this to go over well, but…

“Monkey.” Her voice catches on his name, surprisingly them both. “Monkey, this is important to her.”

“You don’t understand.” The thunder darkens for a fraction of a moment, and then his whole face twists with the most terrible anguish. “It’s not going to _survive_.”

For the second time in as many hours, Tripitaka’s heart stops. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He ducks his head as he says it, eyes on the ground, like he’s ashamed of himself for feeling so deeply, for letting himself feel anything at all. One day, Tripitaka will have to have a long talk with him — with all three of them, really — and explain that there is no shame in feeling, that emotions are proof of being alive, not a source of shame to be locked up or hidden away. One day, certainly, but not today.

Today, she has more important things to worry about. Namely—

“What are you talking about?”

He rumbles his impatience. “The whatever-it-is inside that stupid egg. It’s not going to make it. Even if she does keep the stupid thing alive long enough to hatch, it won’t survive a day. Its spirit isn’t strong enough.” He looks her right in the eye, unflinching and deadly serious. “That thing is a goner, monk. It’s doomed.”

“You…” Tripitaka swallows, grimaces. “You can’t possibly know that.”

“Yeah, I can.” He glances over his shoulder, expression hardening once more as his gaze falls on Sandy, still exactly where she was when Tripitaka left her. “And she’d know it too, if she wasn’t such a stubborn little—”

“ _Monkey_.”

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes and his shoulders in perfect sync, turns back to face her, and says again, with heat, “It’s too weak. Simple as that. It’s too weak, and it’s going to die.”

Tripitaka swallows hard. She doesn’t want to believe him; how can anyone know for sure, she thinks, how strong a creature’s spirit really is? She has seen people survive the most unspeakable things, claw their way back from the brink of death. She has seen miracles brought to life; does he really expect her to throw up her hands and accept that this creature is doomed, simply because he says it’s so?

Oh, but the look on his face…

True or not, she can tell that he believes it. Truly and sincerely, with every breath in his body, he believes it.

She sighs.

“Why are you telling me this? You want me to tell her?”

“Of course not,” he says, sighing sourly. “She wouldn’t believe it from you any more than she’d believe it from me. Knowing her, she’s probably already picked out a name for the blasted thing.”

Tripitaka certainly wouldn’t put it past her, though she’s wise enough not to say so. “So why tell me, then?”

“I just… I guess I thought you should know.” He glances back at the fire again, anger softening just slightly into something unexpectedly compassionate. “So you can be prepared.”

Tripitaka smothers another sigh, massaging her suddenly-aching temples, and tries to process this.

It’s going to hurt, that much is obvious, and for a whole mess of reasons. It’s going to hurt because Sandy — whatever she might say to the contrary — is already attached to the egg and its faint-spirited little occupant, because she is so, so sure that she can save one creature, if only one, in all the world, from being abandoned and left to die as she was.

It’s going to hurt, too, because they have all suffered too much grief and loss and pain in the last few weeks, because none of them want to suffer any more, to have to grieve and mourn and bury another friend…

Or another enemy, come to that.

She glances at Monkey. He is angry and upset, shoulders and jaw tight, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and frustration, every inch of him reeling and roiling with silent, untouched pain.

“Are you sure?” she asks him quietly. “I mean, are you _really_ sure?”

He growls. It is nothing like the way Sandy growls; she is like a feral beast when she growls, a creature of the dark with bones between her teeth, but with Monkey it is like passion made into sound, his repressed emotions brought to life in the chamber of his throat.

For all that he tries to keep his feelings safely buried beneath the surface, sometimes Tripitaka thinks that he is the most emotive one of them all.

“Of course I’m sure,” he says after a long moment. “I mean, as sure as anyone can be, right? We’ve all seen some crazy stuff these past few months, so it’s not… I guess it’s not _completely_ impossible.” He’s gritting his teeth as he says it, making it very clear that he doesn’t really believe it. “But I do know this: she’s not going to keep that thing alive through the power of positive thinking.”

Tripitaka nods, acknowledgement and gratitude, trying not to let too much of her own sorrow show.

She’ll cling to the meagre scrap of optimism as long as she can, for Sandy’s sake, but she has been travelling with Monkey for long enough not to pierce the bravado and recognise the moments of clarity when they surface; she knows when he is worth listening to, and this is definitely one of those times.

He wouldn’t have brought this up, she knows, if he wasn’t sincerely concerned. Monkey may be arrogant and hot-headed, maybe even be downright belligerent at times, but he has never been needlessly cruel, and certainly never to his fellow gods; he will taunt them, tease them, test their limits and their patience, but he will not _hurt_ them. 

Not like this, at least. Not with a weapon he’s felt so keenly himself.

“Okay,” she says at last. “Thank you, Monkey, for letting me know.”

He grunts again, but doesn’t say anything more for some time. He’s still downcast, muscles still locked tight with too many emotions; usually he relaxes a bit once he’s had the chance to get things off his chest, growing loose-limbed and steadier, like he’s unburning himself physically as well as emotionally. He doesn’t look that way now, though; if anything, he looks even more upset.

Tripitaka wishes she knew what to say to him.

She wishes—

Well. She wishes a lot of things, none of which are within her power.

Things are never simple with Monkey, no more than they are with Sandy; they both have so much pain in their past, so many tragedies knocking on the walls of their heads and hearts, and she doesn’t really understand either of them as well as she’d like. She doesn’t know if Monkey is still struggling with everything that happened at the Jade Mountain — between the two of them, between him and Davari, all of it — and she’s not sure if it’s her place to ask. He seems to have made peace, at least, with her new identity — her old identity, her true one — but who can say for sure, what’s going through Monkey’s head in a given moment?

She doesn’t want to make things difficult by asking about it if there’s no need. There is enough tension in their little camp already without trying to work through some that doesn’t exist. But sometimes he looks at her like he’s still trying to figure out who and what she is. And that—

Maybe it’s just her, anticipating the worst, from him and from all of them; she’s been dreading this moment for so long, it’s only natural that she would see monsters around every corner now that it’s finally happened.

But then, maybe it’s _not_ just her. Maybe—

But then _again_ , maybe it’s something entirely different.

She doesn’t know. And she has no idea if she has any right to ask.

At the very least, he’s not looking at her that way now. He’s looking at her with only his own pain in mind, eyes wide and dark, like he feels helpless, like he thought it would make him feel better to talk to her about this, but somehow it’s only made him feel worse.

It’s a sad, heartbreaking look, but at least his distress isn’t aimed at her this time. She can work with that.

She touches his arm, feels the muscle twitch and jump in rhythm with his agitation, and says, gently, “Monkey.”

He looks down at her hand, studying the curve of her fingers, the points of contact where they press into his skin. He’s not thrown by the touch as he would have been not so long ago, but he seems a little startled just the same, like the lines on her palm are drawing some deeper, unwanted sensation out from his bones.

“I hate being right all the time,” he mutters, more to himself than to her.

Tripitaka laughs. She can’t help herself; she’s sure he means it with absolute seriousness, but the words are so arrogant, so typically _Monkey_ , how can she be anything but amused?

“I think experience has taught us,” she says carefully, “that you’re not right _all_ the time.”

He stiffens, yanking his arm away like she’s somehow forfeited the right to touch him by being so defiant; it’s not any less arrogant, she thinks privately, but this time she keeps her amusement well-heeled.

“I’m right about _this_ ,” he grouches moodily. “And I wish I wasn’t. Because even if she’s being stupid — which she is — she shouldn’t be punished for trying to save a life.”

He’s turning away as he says it, moving with his whole body so she won’t see the grief glimmering behind his eyes, tears like stars pricking the darkness there. For the first time, Tripitaka wonders if maybe Sandy isn’t the only one getting too invested in this thing.

She doesn’t say it, though, and she doesn’t try to reach for him again. She wants to, as much for her own benefit as for his, but she knows that he would reject the contact now as a point of pride; he’s shown too much of himself now, allowed too many of his softer feelings to break through to the surface, and he will not make himself weaker by accepting comfort. It wouldn’t surprise her if he stormed off now and spent the next few hours throwing his his staff at the wall just to prove he’s still strong.

It wouldn’t be the first time he did that. Hell, it wouldn’t even be the first time since they came down here.

She won’t push him, though, and if that’s what he wants to do, what he needs to, she won’t stand in his way.

She’s grateful, of course, touched that he would open himself this far, but she knows when he’s reached his limits and she knows that her compassion would not be welcome. He’s not opening up for his own emotional well-being, she knows; he’s doing it to be practical, because he thinks Tripitaka is the only one of them who can make the inevitable heartbreak even just a little less painful.

Tripitaka doesn’t know if she deserves that level of trust. She’s not sure if she’s capable of making something like this hurt less. For Sandy, for him. For any one of them, even herself.

She is, however, willing to try.

“We’ll get through it,” she tells him, with as much kindness as she dares. “Whatever happens, even if you’re right. We’ll get through it together, just like we always do.”

Monkey snorts, masking his heartbreak with forced bemusement. For a moment, Tripitaka sees a reflection of his Master, five hundred years of loss and pain catching the light behind his star-touched eyes.

She sees Gwen, as well, lost to both of them, and then her own master, the Scholar, his sightless eyes so full of love as he begged her to run, flee, escape, never knowing what — _who_ — she would become.

They have lost. Both of them. All of them. They have lost and grieved and mourned, and they will again.

Tripitaka can’t stop death and grief from finding them, no more than Monkey could have stopped Gwen from taking the forest-kin’s poison into herself, no more than he could have stopped Davari from killing the Master all those centuries ago. She can’t stop pain from taking root inside their hearts any more than Sandy could have stopped her family from abandoning her.

She cannot undo things that have already happened. No-one can, not even a god. But she can make that sure none of them grieve or suffer alone. She can make sure that they survive it, all of them, together.

Looking down at her, Monkey’s eyes catch a shaft of sunlight from the world above. A crack in the cave ceiling, a crack in his pain, and then he’s smiling again.

“Right,” he says. A little bit shaky, but strong just the same. Himself again, for all his grief. “Sure. ’Cause that’s what we do, right? Get through stuff?”

Tripitaka touches his arm again. A moment of contact, a warm, affectionate squeeze, and she pulls away, returning his smile with all the human optimism she has in her heart.

“Yeah,” she says. “That’s what we do.”

*

The looming promise of lunch brings them all back to the fire.

Sandy hasn’t moved. She’s still swaddled in Pigsy’s blanket, still clutching the egg to her chest like it’s a greater source of heat than the flame, still deathly pale and shaking like her bones are trying to break out of her body.

Tripitaka’s own body temperature plummets just looking at her, and her heart drops as well, into her stomach.

She’s not the only one who notices. Pigsy frowns as he examines her, head cocked to one side, leaning in invasively close and peering right into her face, like he does not fear the violent thing she becomes when people get too close.

“That’s not good,” he muses. “Not good at all.”

Sandy does not attack him for the breach of her personal space, but she does bristle, jerking back and shoving him away. Her teeth are chattering, and her efforts to hide her face do little to hide the cold already settling under her clothes and inside her skin.

“Heat is an illusion,” she says, shivering violently.

Pigsy chuckles, wry and humourless, and says, with a heady mix of worry and affection, “Your brains are a bloody illusion.”

“Probably.” She hugs the egg a little tighter. “Your point?”

He sighs, as though realising — as he should have known all along — that talking reasonably to her is a lost cause.

“My point,” he says gamely, “is that you should be all warm and toasty by now.” He narrows his eyes, feigning annoyance to cover up his concerns. “Are you even trying?”

“Of course.” Her eyes gleam, feverishly bright. “I’m only cold because _your_ neglect of duty forced me to spend hours at the bottom of a frozen lake.”

Pigsy sighs, throws up his hands, and turns away. “I said I was sorry.”

“No,” Sandy says in a thin, reedy voice, “you didn’t.”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, as though realising for the first time that it’s true. “Oh.”

“Mm. So I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your comments to yourself.”

“Right.” He winces. “I mean, uh, that’s not the point…”

While they bicker, Tripitaka creeps surreptitiously closer. She’s not looking at Sandy’s face or her hands — she already knows what she’ll find there, ice-white and blue-grey — but at the egg in her arms, smooth and solid and very still. She’s sure that Monkey would have mentioned it if he thought the thing held any magical power, but she has been on the receiving end of too many innocuous-looking contraptions to risk overlooking the possibility now.

Sandy hasn’t put the thing down since she emerged from the lake. Not for a minute, not even for a moment. She’s still freezing, and the creature inside the egg is still clinging to life. It doesn’t take a genius to put those pieces together.

Tripitaka clears her throat, cutting off the background chatter.

“I think,” she says to Sandy, very carefully, “you should put that down for a while.”

Sandy, of course, only holds on tighter. “No.”

“Stubborn idiot.” Monkey is scowling now, rubbing his forehead like he’s fighting off a headache, or possibly just keeping his hands busy to avoid doing something he’ll regret; either way, it makes him look deeply drained. “Just put the stupid thing down, yeah? I promise not to throw it back into the lake.”

Sandy doesn’t budge. “Promise not to _touch_ it.”

“Fine.” He tries to smirk, but it’s watery and carries none of his usual smugness. “Why would I want to touch it, anyway? Who knows where it’s been?”

Ignoring him, Tripitaka holds out her arms. “I’ll take it.”

Sandy stares at her for a long, long time, frowning with nervous suspicion, dark-eyed and dubious, like she doesn’t trust her any more than she trusts Monkey.

It makes Tripitaka’s heart ache, the sudden distance between them.

Not so long ago, Sandy would have deferred to her without a moment’s hesitation. She would have handed over anything Tripitaka asked for, even her own heart, if she thought it might make her happy. Now, she looks at her like she’s assessing the intentions of a stranger — no, worse, like she’s gauging the likelihood of being hurt again by someone she once trusted too easily — and it takes her a very long time to finally yield.

“Don’t hurt it,” she rasps, handing the egg over with a reluctance that stings. “Don’t do anything. Don’t…”

“I won’t.” Tripitaka cradles the thing carefully, holding it like it’s made of crystal, like it’s the most precious thing in the world. To Sandy, it is, and so Tripitaka has to treat it that way too. “It’s safe with me. Okay? I promise I won’t let anything happen to it.”

Sandy still doesn’t look convinced. She looks a bit sick, like she’s regretting a terrible mistake she can’t take back, but she bites her tongue and resists the urge to reclaim it. With both hands free, she sidles a little closer to the fire, warming her fingers over the flames. Tripitaka swallows hard at the sight of them, ash-white tinged with blue.

Pigsy, still watching her closely, shakes his head and muses, “Yeah, that’s definitely not good.”

Tripitaka runs her palms over the surface of the egg. “It’s cold as well,” she observes out loud.

It’s true; it is cold. Not freezing like Sandy, but definitely chilled and unpleasant to the touch, far more than she would expect from a thing made to incubate life. She feels her own body grow cold as well, the longer she holds it, like it’s leeching the warmth out of her skin somehow, absorbing her body heat through its points of contact.

Hastily, she puts the thing down.

On the other side of the fire, watching all of this with rapt, terse attention, Monkey swears under his breath.

“It’s never simple, is it?”

Sandy doesn’t say anything for a long time. She’s practically on top of the fire, warming as much of herself as the flames can reach without scorching her clothes, and Tripitaka notes with a queasy combination of relief and dread that her skin has gotten some of its colour back now that the egg is out of her hands.

Definitely not a coincidence, then. And she probably knew it, too.

Tripitaka closes her eyes, counts to ten a couple of times, and doesn’t open them again until she’s certain she won’t say something regrettable. She’s already agreed to let Sandy keep the thing, at least until they can find others of its kind — whatever that may be — and their relationship is too tenuous to risk making it worse by reneging on a promise that means so much to her.

She may not be a monk in truth, but she knows that wouldn’t be a priestly thing to do.

When she finally trusts herself to look at Sandy again, she finds her staring up at her with wide, tearful eyes. They reflect the glow of the fire, the steel transformed to burnished bronze; they make her look radiant, ethereal, like she did when she emerged from the lake, beautiful even in her stubbornness.

“It’s dying,” Sandy whispers. “It won’t survive without warmth.”

So she did know, then. Bypassing her best efforts, Tripitaka’s temper flares. “Neither will you!”

“I’m a god,” Sandy throws back. “I can endure perfectly well—”

“No, you can’t,” Monkey snaps, voice tight with unexpected fervour. “You know that. And apparently you also know that it’s dying anyway. So why don’t you put us all out of our misery, and just get rid of the stupid thing now?”

Sandy’s eyes flash danger. Her hands, still hovering over the fire, twitch and clench, like she’s fighting the urge to reach for her weapon and take a swing at him for daring to suggest something so unspeakable.

“We are _not_ discarding it,” she says, fierce and furious. “If it dies, it dies. Such is often the way of these things. But it will not die _alone_ , and it will not die _abandoned_.”

Monkey throws up his hands. He’s angry too, and viscerally upset. Grief is as heavy a burden for him as abandonment is for Sandy; it hurts to watch them both struggle on opposite sides of the same terrible pain, and Tripitaka can’t see a way to make this easier for one of them without making it harder for the other. This ordeal can’t end well for both of them; at this point, she wonders if it can end well for either.

“It’s not even hatched yet,” Monkey is grumbling, his voice getting lower until he sounds almost as hoarse as Sandy. “It doesn’t know we’re here. It doesn’t know anything. How would it know if it was alone or not?”

Sandy pulls away from the fire, gathering the egg back up into her arms. She starts shivering again almost immediately, but doesn’t let the renewed cold deter her. She cradles the thing like a kitten, like it’s her own flesh and blood, like its warmth means more than her own.

Maybe it does, at that. She’s always danced on the knife-edge of masochism, as long as Tripitaka has known her; that this is the next logical step to her dalliances with self-destruction is hardly surprising.

“It responds to contact,” she says to Monkey. “It draws warmth from my touch.”

“It sucks the _life_ out of you,” he counters, pointing to her face, her lips, the colour draining out of her skin.

She lifts her chin, defiant and desperately possessive. “Thus, it knows I’m here.”

“I…” His mouth hangs open for a moment, then he snaps it shut, visibly infuriated. “I mean… I _suppose_ …”

Sandy’s expression twists with triumph. “I won’t let it be discarded,” she says again, with more heat in her voice than in her whole body. “It will survive or it won’t, but it will not die lost and abandoned on some nameless roadside. It will not be thrown away and told that its life is worthless. I will not allow it. Do you understand? I will _not_ —”

She stops, body shaking from more than just the chill. Tripitaka longs to go to her side, but once again she knows better than to try. Sandy is never more dangerous or unpredictable than when she’s feeling vulnerable.

Monkey is still glaring at her, no less dangerous in his own way, and no less passionate. “So you’ll… what? Freeze to death trying to keep the thing alive, then bury it and wail over its grave when it dies on you anyway?”

“If that’s what must happen.”

He throws up his hands. “And what if it hatches, and it’s so sick or weak or whatever that killing it would be a mercy? Would you put it out of its misery?”

“Of course.”

Her voice doesn’t waver for an instant. Tripitaka shivers at the sudden tonelessness.

Monkey doesn’t shiver; he doesn’t react at all. His frustration is rising, blinding him to everything else. To him this is a matter of death and grief and pain. He really doesn’t grasp that it means something fundamentally different to Sandy.

“So _why_?” he cries, angry and anguished. “If you’re willing to bury it, or even kill it yourself if you have to, why can’t we just throw it back into the lake now? You know, before you get too attached and end up with a broken heart? Why won’t you spare yourself the pain?”

Sandy stands up, slowly and carefully, still cradling the egg in her arms. She seems even taller than usual, raised up by the power of her conviction, and she flows into Monkey’s space, overwhelming and overpowering, until the two of them are practically of a height with each other, toe to toe and eye to eye, both unflinching.

“Because,” she says, very softly, “no creature should have to live out its final moments knowing that it was unwanted.”

Monkey mutters something under his breath, a low, spiteful rumble that sounds suspiciously, like ‘it _is_ unwanted.’

He’s not quite so cruel as to say that audibly, though, and settles instead for glaring, pointing an accusatory finger at the egg and the god holding it, and snapping, “Just don’t expect _me_ to start taking care of it.”

Then he spins on his heels and storms off.

Sandy watches him go, expressionless.

“I won’t,” she says in a hollow voice, then bows her head over the egg and starts crooning at it.

Tripitaka sighs, buries her face in her hands, and wishes that just once, things would turn out well for everyone.

Or anyone, for that matter.

On the other side of the fire, Pigsy raises a cautious hand. “So that’s a no, then, on omelette for lunch?”

Sandy pitches a rock at his head.

All things considered, Tripitaka thinks, it’s not undeserved.

*


	2. Chapter 2

*

The afternoon doesn’t pass any more peacefully than the morning did.

Not that Tripitaka really expected it to. Experience has taught her, repeatedly, that when a day starts with trouble it’s probably just going to get worse from there on out. Time and time again, she’s learned that it’s better to brace for the worst and always be prepared than expect the best and suffer the inevitable disappointment.

Travelling with three gods, each prone to their own particular breed of trouble, this is a motto that has served her quite well.

Monkey and Sandy spend several hours not talking to each other, looking at each other, or otherwise acknowledging each other’s existence. The sullen immaturity on both sides is as predictable as it is upsetting.

For the first leg of the afternoon, Monkey takes to prowling beside Pigsy, venting his frustrations by stopping every now and then to poke him with his staff and point out, “This is all your fault, you know.”

Pigsy does seem to know that, yes, though the self-awareness still hasn’t extended to any kind of apology. Tripitaka only wishes this came as a surprise.

Sandy, meanwhile, trails a short distance behind the rest of them, holding the egg in her arms and refusing to let anyone else near it. She’s handed over care of her scythe to Tripitaka — who is frankly terrified of the thing — and turned all of her attention to her precious charge, keeping it bundled up in her cloak at all times, in a dual attempt at keeping it warm and minimising direct contact with her own skin, still cold and not getting any warmer.

It doesn’t seem to have any noticeable effect, at least as far as Tripitaka can tell, and that worries her; even from a distance, she can hear Sandy’s teeth chattering, can see her shivering and starting to stumble, and she has a feeling that it will get worse before it gets better. Experience has taught her that as well: if one of her gods has set their mind to being stubborn about something, nothing short of death will stop them.

Well. Death or intervention. And given those options…

She waits until they’ve been walking for a few hours, then not-so-subtly recruits Pigsy to help her make the attempt. He’s a better negotiator, well-versed in common sense, and if it gets him away from Monkey — and his only fractionally less damaging breed of stubbornness — so much the better.

“Look,” he says to Sandy, off Tripitaka’s hopeful, encouraging nod. “Assuming you actually want to live long enough to see that thing hatch, you might want to let one of us take a turn once in a while.”

Sandy bristles. “No.”

“You can’t hold onto it forever,” he presses. “You’re already half-frozen.”

“It’s nothing I can’t endure,” she says broodily. “I’m very hardy, you know.”

Pigsy snorts, but doesn’t deny it. “On a good day, sure,” he concedes. “But you’re still recovering from the… uh, that is, from…”

“…the task _you_ burdened me with?”

“That’s the one, yeah.” He coughs, awkward and somewhat apologetic, but he seems to realise now is not the time to dwell on that. Not if they want to break through to her. “Come on. You know I don’t have a side here.”

“You always have a side,” Sandy remarks. “Usually whichever one you can profit from.”

“Ah. Point taken.” He lets that sit, then shrugs it off and tries again. “I’m just saying, if you really want to do this, you’re going to have to take a break once in a while. Catch your breath, take stock, get some heat back into your fingers and toes. You know?” His words seem to fall on deaf ears, but he doesn’t let that deter him. “And that means you’re going to have to let one of us take a turn looking after that thing. Me, her, Monkey…”

More than a dozen paces ahead, Monkey yells, over his shoulder, “ _Not_ Monkey!”

Pigsy ignores him. “It doesn’t matter who,” he says to Sandy. “The point is, if you want to do right by that thing while it’s sucking the life out of you, you’re going to have to let it out of your hands once in a while. I mean, you don’t have that much warmth to give.”

Sandy stares at him for a long, fraught moment, eyes narrowed, expression blank.

Tripitaka tenses, gripping the scythe a little tighter and inching back a few paces. That look is usually dangerous, and she’d like her body and the weapon to be as far out of reach as possible in case Sandy becomes aggressive, in case she decides to—

“This is true.”

—agree?

Tripitaka blinks.

It takes a second or two for her body to loosen, for her shoulders to slump and her heart to slow to a more comfortable pace. The look on Sandy’s face hasn’t changed — she’s still glaring danger, even if she has no intention of acting on it — but there is a depth of weariness in her eyes that says she understands her shortcomings, even if she doesn’t want to admit to them.

It’s a relief, and Tripitaka is quick to say so. “That… that’s good.”

“Not really,” Sandy says unhappily. “But it is true nonetheless. Even if I hadn’t spent the whole morning submerged in icy water, I still wouldn’t have an endless supply of body heat. My limits are what they are, and this creature is hungry.”

“Okay.” Tripitaka relaxes a little more, holding out the scythe in offer of a trade. “So why don’t you let me—”

She probably should have expected the full-body flinch, the tension bursting back to the surface, the angry, tight-jawed “ _No_.”

“But you just said—”

“I’ll put it down when we stop,” Sandy clarifies, edging further and further away from her. “We can make a fire and grow warm together. As I said, my limits are what they are. But they can wait that long, at least. I don’t need…”

There is something telling in the way she trails off, Tripitaka thinks, something more than simply defensive.

“Sandy,” she says, slow and careful. “You know I won’t hurt it. You know I understand why you feel… why this is so important to you. You know I’m on your side.”

“Yes.” She clenches her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering, and perhaps to stop something else as well, a burst of emotion she doesn’t want to let show. “I do know that.”

But she still makes no move to surrender the egg, and she doesn’t allow Tripitaka or Pigsy to get any closer. She just stands there hugging the thing, looking defiant and helpless at the same time, blinking down at Tripitaka like she’s searching for the secrets of the stars.

Or maybe like she’s searching for stars in a place where there are none.

Tripitaka thinks she understands. She lowers her arms, draws the scythe back to her side, and says, “This is about us, isn’t it? About what happened…”

She trails off, uncomfortable pushing this any further with Pigsy there.

It doesn’t matter; Sandy understands, and the conflict on her face grows even more obvious, almost painful.

“Yes.” Her throat convulses; the sound of her swallowing is deeply unpleasant. “I mean, no. Of course not.”

Tripitaka cuts a glance at Pigsy. He’s watching the two of them with a baffled, assessing look on his face, like he’s trying to decipher a code or find a hidden message on ancient parchment.

Taking pity on him, Tripitaka says, “Could you give us a moment in private?”

He shrugs, relief slackening his features. “We should probably take a break, anyway,” he muses gamely. “If that’s the only way to get her to put that thing down…”

And off he strides, ostensibly in search of something dry enough to make a fire.

Once they’re alone, Sandy drops to her knees and gently places the egg on the ground. She hovers over it with bared teeth, like an animal protecting its young, bracing her palms on the ground like a part of her expects to have to leap up and defend the thing at any moment. She looks small and deadly, and Tripitaka is careful to keep a couple of paces between them when she speaks.

“You don’t trust me any more.”

It’s meant as an observation, simple and straightforward, but Sandy recoils just the same, like she’s been accused of some heinous crime.

“I know that you’ll do what you believe is right,” she murmurs. “I know that you feel compelled to honour your promise to me, even though you secretly agree with Monkey.”

Tripitaka grimaces. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that I agree with him,” she says carefully. “I just don’t want either of you to get hurt.”

To her surprise, Sandy actually laughs a little. Hoarse and cracking and wholly without humour, but at least she’s still capable of it. “You say that as if we’re not hurting already.”

“I…” Tripitaka turns her away. “Sandy.”

“Tripitaka.” She’s looking down at the egg when Tripitaka peeks at her, features soft and sort of awestruck. “All my life, I have been surrounded by pain and death. You know now, how I came to live the way I do: it was not by choice.”

“I know,” Tripitaka says, and remembers, and aches.

Sandy ignores that, pressing on like she’s in some sort of wretched trance. “Before you, I only knew how to be touched in violence. Touched with intent to hurt or torture or kill. For so many years, it was the only kind of contact I knew.” Her breath hitches as she speaks, still a little razed from the lake. “But then you appeared. And you showed me what it means to be touched in other ways, to be touched with love and life, with _warmth_.”

“I…” Tripitaka’s chest feels heavy, like the way Sandy’s breathing sounds, a solid weight pressing down on her heart and her lungs. “I hope I did, yes.”

“You did. Without even truly realising it, I think.” She bows her head over the egg again, reverent and loving. “And now this creature draws its warmth from _my_ hands, from _my_ touch. Just as I once drew it from yours.”

She’s touching the thing again, hands trembling and white-blue but moving with surety and strength.

Tripitaka moves forward. Slowly, very carefully, aware that she is approaching not one but two wild creatures. She holds out her own hands, lets them hover a little way over Sandy’s, within easy reach but not touching her or the egg.

“Sandy,” she says again, but it’s different now, the kind of talking that is really listening.

“You breathe life into everything you touch,” Sandy whispers, shaking all over. “You even breathed life into me. I didn’t imagine such a thing was possible, and yet you did it. Easy, effortlessly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But I don’t…” She ducks her head again, this time to hide it, obscuring her sudden blush with the tangles of her hair. “I’m not like you, Tripitaka. I’ve never felt life bloom under my hands before. I’ve never made another creature feel warm or wanted. I’d never even heard those words before, not in so long.”

Tripitaka understands that. She does, she really does. But—

“Sandy, you’re freezing.” It shouldn’t need to be said, but there it is. “You need that warmth for yourself.”

Sandy wets her blue-tinted lips. “I know.”

And yet, she still hesitates, still keeps her hands in the space between Tripitaka and the egg, still refuses to let her come any closer, to let her touch either one of them. Still, even now, she looks at her like she’s seeking the stars in an empty sky, seeking light in the fathomless depths of the lake, like she is searching with every ounce of strength she has for something that no longer exists.

Tripitaka swallows her sorrow. “You don’t trust me any more,” she says again. “Not since…”

Sandy looks down at the egg, then at her own hands, shaking and frozen but endlessly strong.

“This wretched creature has already been abandoned once,” she says in a hoarse, ragged voice. “Her spirit is too weak to endure such a thing again.”

So saying, she picks up the egg, drags herself back to her feet, and walks away.

*

A little later, warming his hands over a weak fire, Pigsy says, “I think you’re going about this the wrong way.”

Tripitaka, lost in her own thoughts, only blinks her confusion. “Huh?”

They’re both watching Sandy, her face distorted through the flickering flames as she fails to get warm. As promised, she’s set the egg down at her side and is trying with some success to get a little warmth back into herself. She’s looking a bit better now, though Tripitaka doubts the improvement will last; as soon as they start moving again, she will pick the thing back up and all that fiercely-won warmth will start bleeding out of her all over again. It’s a temporary fix, nothing more, and an inefficient one to boot.

Pigsy makes a sad sound, a low rumble deep in his chest. Regret, certainly, and a touch of compassion too, the sorrowful softness he gets sometimes when he looks at the others, when he measures out the distances between him and them, he with his countless sins and mistakes and they with all their troubles and traumas and good intentions. It’s no secret that he feels the weight of that sometimes, but in moments like this it grants him a unique sort of perspective; he knows them, and he uses that to full effect.

“Time was,” he says slowly, “she’d hand over her heart to you, fresh out of her chest, if you asked for it.”

The truth of it makes Tripitaka flinch a little. “I’d never ask.”

“I know. Too bloody practical.” His chuckle is uncharacteristically hollow. “My point is, she would’ve bled and burned for you not so long ago. If she’s not letting you get near that thing, I’m guessing the egg isn’t really the problem.”

This is true too, of course, and Tripitaka knows it well. She knows why, as well, but she’s not really if it’s her place to talk to him about it. She’s not sure she’d want to, even if she could. To have to explain that Sandy’s stubbornness and pain are her fault, that she’s the reason Sandy is so obsessed with protecting the doomed little creature from its lonely, miserable fate…

She doesn’t know if she could bear to see the disappointment in his face if he learned that.

And she doesn’t know, either, if Sandy would want anyone else to know about it in. And if she doesn’t…

Well.

Tripitaka doesn’t know how much more of her trust she can afford to break. There’s already so little left.

“Did she tell you anything?” she asks, phrasing herself with great care. “About what happened when… after I left?”

“Not a word.” He thinks on it for less than a second. “Though, to be fair, it’s not like I ever asked.”

It’s the perfect thing to say. Tripitaka doesn’t even really know why, but it sets her at ease somewhat, makes it easy to find a small, half-teasing smile. “You didn’t wonder even a little bit?”

He shrugs. “Worked out well enough in the end, didn’t it?” Then, coughing as he recalls the showdown at the top of the palace, “I mean, not the _best_ way, all things considered. But good enough, eh?”

Tripitaka’s smile grows easier, her heart steadier. This is about as deeply as Pigsy ever thinks about anything, and it is often a quiet sort of comfort next to Monkey’s fierce passion and Sandy’s melancholy confusion. Pigsy has never particularly cared which path they take, so long as it leads them to the right place in the end. His carelessness, especially in moments like this, is deeply refreshing.

It emboldens her, too, to keep going, to unburden a little of the regret and sorrow she’s been carrying around since that terrible night.

“It’s personal,” she tells him. “The abandonment thing, I mean. For her. When we… when I wanted to leave the quest, it shook her up pretty badly. Made her remember some things she probably didn’t want to. We… I don’t know if you’d say we ‘fought’. I’m not sure what to call it, really. But it was bad. And I think it left her in a bad place.”

“Bad.” He echoes the word without inflection, with none of the trembling regret that made it sound so shameful on her tongue. “You mean ‘volatile’.”

“I mean…” She sighs. Sandy is Sandy; there’s really no other word for her. “Volatile, yes. She’s troubled, upset, I think she might still be in pain… and she doesn’t trust me any more.”

Pigsy thinks on that for a beat. “Suppose that’s understandable, all told. You gave her a purpose, you know. Dragged her out of the dark. Literally. You leaving us like you did, it’s like you were threatening to take all that away again. Toss her back into the sewer, leave her there to rot.”

Tripitaka knows that. Deeply, intimately, painfully, she knows. It sits like a stone in the pit of her stomach, all the more unpleasant for the other part, the part Sandy confessed that night, the part Tripitaka won’t share with anyone: that it wouldn’t have been the first time she was thrown away like that by someone she trusted.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” she says, sad and regretful. “I wasn’t trying to… to abandon her. Any of you. I just… I just wanted to find a home.”

Pigsy studies her for a long moment. Then, very softly, he says, “We all did.”

He says it plainly, with significance but not hurt. He’s not upset, not like Sandy was, and that is a comfort Tripitaka didn’t fully realise she needed. Like Monkey, Pigsy has lived a very long time, but unlike Monkey he didn’t sleep through a hefty chunk of it; he understands, perhaps better than anyone else, what might drive a young girl to seek sanctuary in the arms of something safe, someone _warm_. 

But looking at him, heavy-lidded and sober, Tripitaka thinks that maybe he understands, too, the kind of pain that would drive a young god to live her life in the dark and the dirt, to hide in the shadows and shrink from the light, the kind of desperate, brutal loneliness that would drive her to worship a name, even just the idea of a name, for years before it ever belonged to anyone.

Tripitaka is only just beginning to understand what sort of a life that must have been. It feels unscalable, the void of trust between them now, the way Sandy flinches and grows feral when Tripitaka reaches for her, the lost, hopeless look in her eyes when she searches her face for the light and the stars and finds only the broken, discarded husk of a promise.

“I don’t know how to make it up to her,” she says, helplessly confessional.

Pigsy looks thoughtful for a beat, then he heaves his big shoulders in another shrug. “Well, for a start—”

But that’s as far as he gets.

Monkey, standing guard and brooding a short way away, lets out a low warbling sound, one arm raised in a silent alarm. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to; the signal is familiar to everyone by now, and they’re all up on their feet in a heartbeat, readying and bracing for trouble.

Tripitaka, lacking her gods’ abilities to sense these things, hisses, “What is it?”

Monkey doesn’t so much as glance her way. When he catches the scent of danger, his focus is like the fine edge of a knife, pinpoint-sharp and lethal. He’s squinting down into the shadows of the lake, staff already in his hand, extended and twirling, as eager for a fight as the rest of him.

“More of your little friends,” he says , lifting his head to lock eyes with Sandy. “Probably here to reclaim that thing you ‘reclaimed’.”

He says it with a healthy dose of derision, but — for once — no real malice. Monkey might be the kind to hold grudges, generally speaking, but he’s always appreciative when someone other than him is the one to start a fight. All the brawling and none of the blame, so far as he’s concerned, and so he’s willing to cut Sandy some slack for as long as their interests intersect.

Sandy, on the other hand, takes it all very seriously. She’s staring down at the egg, still sitting at her feet, wide-eyed and panic-stricken, and for a long, conflicted moment Tripitaka is convinced she’s going to pick the thing up and run away with it.

She doesn’t, though. For all her doubts and struggles, she’s far too loyal for that.

She struggles for just a moment, visibly torn. Then, in a sudden burst of conviction, she sighs, hisses a couple of halting curses, and snatches up her scythe.

“Protect it,” she whispers to Tripitaka, in a broken, helpless voice. “ _Please_.”

“I will,” Tripitaka promises, reaching out desperately for her arm. “Sandy—”

Too slow: Sandy leaps back, and Tripitaka’s fingers catch only mist as she dissipates and dissolves.

She’s gone, then, dashing into the fray. A blink, a blur, and she reappears at Monkey’s side, lightning-fast and ready for action. They make a stunning contrast, the two of them, a silver-blue flash and a rolling wave of black and red, and Tripitaka’s heart dances to watch them like that, back to back and shoulder to shoulder, like they never disagreed about anything in their lives.

There is little time to bask in the moment, though; their enemies are already bursting out of the water, baying for blood.

There are three of them, slinking and sliding up onto the surface, moving as a single unit, salamander-sleek and hissing their violent intentions. They speak the common tongue well enough, if jaggedly, and they’re not shy about making threats.

“Blood for blood,” one of them spits. “You kill, we kill.”

Despite herself, Tripitaka relaxes a little, limbs going numb with relief. Vengeance is something they’re all intimately acquainted with, and it brings the encounter firmly into the realm of the familiar. Barely a day has passed since the quest began without a vengeful demon or villager seeking recompense for some dead comrade or brother or the like. If revenge is all these creatures want, that makes it just another day in the life, more or less.

Sandy watches them closely as they surge towards her; for the first time since she emerged from the lake, she has a smile on her face.

“Honourable,” she remarks, cool and indifferent to the violence they’re accusing her of. “Surprisingly so, for creatures who have no honour in any other corner of their lives.”

And she pulls back her shoulders in a subtle, blink-and-you-miss-it sort of warning, then lunges.

Monkey is right behind her. Behind her, and then beside her, and then in front of her, leaping and ducking, swinging and slashing and striking, generally having the time of his life.

They fight together beautifully, her speed a perfect counterweight to his power, the two of them whirling and twirling like a living work of art. It is a comfort for everyone — and Pigsy most of all — that he seldom needs to offer more than backup; he stays back, rake held high in a warning to stay back, and flails madly at anyone lucky — or unlucky — enough to break through the others’ assault.

Practised, perfect, precise, all three of them in harmony, all three knowing their place, their position, their part. Tripitaka watches them, heart stuttering with a mix of awe and pride and—

And love.

Yes.

Her gods, all three of them, from Monkey’s strength to Sandy’s speed to Pigsy’s diligence. Her home, the one she should have been seeking all along. This is her haven, her shelter and her sanctuary, the only place she needs. It is here that her heart belongs, and here she should have turned after Gwen’s death, after she said—

After she found out the truth.

When Tripitaka was feverish and delirious, blinded by the fear of what might happen if her gods found out too, if they learned that they’d been following a fraud, that they had bound themselves to a false prophet, a fake monk—

A girl. 

Not a monk, not a warrior, not a prophet or a hero or a champion.

Just a scared, helpless girl.

She should have known better than to doubt them. She should have trusted them, should have had faith in their devotion and their loyalty, just as they’ve always had faith in her. But she didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t. She fled like the scared, helpless girl she was — the girl she still is, fractionally less scared but no less helpless, even now — and she doesn’t know how to repair the damage she left in her wake.

For now she can only do as she’s told: guard the egg.

She stands in front of it, her slight form offering little protection, but the gesture is what counts: she is willing.

She hopes that’s enough. She hopes it will count, at least, for something.

She knows, of course, that it wasn’t trust that compelled Sandy to hand it over, nor faith, nor any of the dozen things she once held in her heart. Nothing like that: it was necessity, reflex, her primal instincts driving her to seek out her weapon and join the fray, to protect her friends and herself, to fight, as she has spent her whole life fighting. 

Sandy has lived for too long with bared teeth and bloodied palms; she will never be a nurturer. Violence will always win with her, every time. Tripitaka has seen it happen so many times; even in her softest moments, she is only a breath away from the wild animal she was was, from ravening hunger and desperation and pain. She is so sharp, sometimes she cuts herself more keenly than she does her enemies.

Not now, though. Now it is only her enemies that fall, cut down one by one by her blade and Monkey’s staff.

She’s sluggish, noticeably slowed by the ice in her bones, but she has every advantage and she uses it well. She’s bested their kind already, and that in the depths of the lake; she knows their style and she has mastered her own. Up here, on solid ground, with good friends behind her and good light above, Tripitaka has a feeling she could best them even unarmed.

Monkey, for once, is willing to follow her lead. He’s not much of a team player in general, but he knows how to adapt, and he recognises Sandy’s superior knowledge in this. He takes his cues from her body language, heeds her silent signals, listens and responds and adjusts with every part of him, and together they strike home.

A burst of smoke, a gurgling scream as the last of them breathes its last, and it’s over.

Tripitaka, who did nothing but watch and protect an inanimate object, falls to her knees in exhaustion.

Pigsy does the same, but he has the good grace to look ashamed of himself. “Well fought, eh?”

Monkey shrinks his staff down and slips it back into his hair. His eyes are cloudy, his expression strangely sober. That’s not usual for him; most of the time, the thrill of adrenaline and power will last for days. He’ll crow about his victories, even the simple ones like this, for as long as it takes for someone to lose patience and yell at him to shut up.

Not today, apparently. Today, for once, he’s all business.

“There’ll be more,” he says, turning back to survey the lake. “If it’s revenge they want, they’ll keep coming until they get it. Or until we’ve killed them all. Or until we’re clear of their territory. Whichever comes first.”

“Mm.” Sandy is leaning wearily on her scythe, catching her breath in ragged, ice-splintering gulps. She glances briefly at Tripitaka, guilty and slightly sad, then turns back to Monkey with a sigh. “If I could have avoided killing their brethren, I would have.”

Monkey grunts his acknowledgement. He’s irritable, but Tripitaka can tell he doesn’t blame her. Not for this, at least; his annoyance is being poured quite neatly into the water.

“Yeah, I know.” He musters a reassuring smile. Half of one, at least, and not especially sincere, but Tripitaka supposes it’s the thought that counts. “At least they go down fast, right?”

Sandy nods, then lets her scythe clatter to the ground, its steel weight slipping from between her numb, frostbitten fingers. She sways a little on her way back to Tripitaka’s side, eyes wide and wild, like she’s still caught in the frenzy of battle, still coming back from the brink. It wouldn’t be the first time, Tripitaka thinks sadly, that she’d need a moment to remember who and where she is.

“Is she well?” she asks, shaking off the last of it and returning to herself. “Are you?”

Tripitaka hops back up to her feet, dusting herself off and double-checking that the egg remains unharmed and in one piece. 

“We’re both fine,” she confirms.

Sandy hesitates in the space between them, looking from one to the other and then back again, like she’s not sure which of the two is more deserving of her attention. She looks conflicted, almost cornered, and it’s only when Tripitaka sighs and steps out of the way, effectively making the decision for her, that she relaxes even just slightly.

Monkey, meanwhile, barks a crude, derisive laugh.

“She?” he echoes, shaking his head as she crouches over the thing. “You know it’s a boy egg, right?”

Sandy, wrapping it back up in her cloak with her usual diligence, doesn’t even glance his way. “You can’t possibly know that.”

“Uh huh. But somehow _you_ know it’s a girl?”

She does look up, then, and the glare she shoots him could freeze a volcano.

Tripitaka, watching them both with growing despair, suspects that neither one of them actually has the faintest idea of what they’re talking about. After travelling for months in the company of a girl they both assumed to be a boy, she’s not particularly confident in either of their talents to discern the sex of an unhatched—

Something.

“You don’t even know _what_ it is,” she points out reasonably. “How can either one of you possibly know _who_ it is?”

Sandy ignores her; she’s still glaring her ice-daggers at Monkey. “Thought you didn’t care, anyway.”

“I don’t,” he shoots back. “But I’m not going to sit here while you make an idiot out of yourself thinking he’s a girl.”

“Right,” Pigsy pipes up brightly. “Because no-one’s ever made _that_ mistake before.”

Feeling a sudden flood of heat colouring her neck, Tripitaka clears her throat.

“You know,” she says, rather hastily, “maybe we should get going. I mean, since we’re being hunted and all. Wouldn’t want to give them another chance to surprise us, now, would we?”

If any of the others sees through the convenient excuse, they’re polite enough not to mention it.

*

They’ve been walking for maybe half an hour when Monkey slows to fall into step beside her.

“We should head back up to the surface,” he says, without preamble.

Tripitaka doesn’t try to hide her confusion. She can’t understand why he’s bringing this to her as a point of discussion, rather than simply announcing it to the entire group, like he usually does, as something he’s already decided on. He’s not generally the type to seek out approval for his ‘brilliant ideas’ before putting them into action, so this is new.

So is the way he’s looking at her. Expectant, almost hopeful, like a puppy waiting for a treat. Kind of like—

Kind of like the way Sandy used to look at her, before. Back when she still believed in the power of a name, a monk, a promise. When she still believed in _Tripitaka_ , and everything she’d spent her whole wretched life waiting for.

Tripitaka can’t say she misses that look, at least not exactly. She does not handle others’ expectations very well, and Sandy’s worship was a heavy, complicated thing. But it is harder than she thought it would be, living now without it.

She’s never seen that look on Monkey’s face, though. He’s never been the kind to seek approval from anyone, even when it’s readily apparent that he cares. It’s as strange seeing it in him as it is to find it missing from Sandy, and she’s not really sure what he wants her to say.

She settles for a shrug. “Sure?” He’s still staring at her, though, so she tries again. “I mean, you’re the expert.”

“I know _that_ ,” he says haughtily. “But that’s not the…” He sighs. “Listen. Those things are easy enough to kill on dry land, but if they keep coming they’re bound to wear us down eventually. So we’re better off just getting out of here and dealing with whatever demons are lurking about on the surface. Right?”

“I… um, right. Sure. Yes?” She blinks at his obvious frustration. “I mean, we could all use some sunlight, anyway.”

“Uh huh.” He’s not really listening; she’s starting to wonder if he’s really here for her opinion at all, or just a blank wall to bounce his thoughts against. “And it’s not like we’re going to find that stupid egg thing’s parents or whatever down here, anyway, is it?” 

_Ah_.

Tripitaka coughs a couple of times, unsure whether to be amused or saddened by his doggedness. “I wouldn’t expect so, no.”

“Right.” Going by his sudden triumphant smirk, that’s just what he wanted to hear. “So the sooner we’re back up on the surface, the sooner we can find somewhere to drop the thing and go back to our happy, uncomplicated lives. Right?”

Tripitaka sighs. “I guess so, yeah.”

The ambivalence makes him scowl again, chin jutting in a pout. “I know you think I’m ‘unfeeling’ about this or ‘lacking compassion’ or whatever. But you know as well as I do that it’s just going to end in misery if we let her keep it. The sooner we get rid of the thing, the better it’ll be for all of us. Especially her.”

Tripitaka does know that, of course. Sort of.

But—

“It’s not that simple, Monkey.”

“Yeah, it is.”

And he storms off ahead, legs churning up the wet gravel, like he needs to vent some of his energy.

Tripitaka watches him go, aware of his phantom presence in the space beside him, but makes no effort to pick up her own pace; she has the distinct feeling he’ll be back in a moment. He’s always at his most stubborn when someone tells him he’s wrong; knowing him, he just needs a moment to regroup, to reestablish control of his temper, and come back — if she’s lucky — a little more level-headed. 

Which he does, after only a handful of minutes.

“Listen.” Said, again, without preamble, gritted out through tightly clenched teeth as he falls back into step beside her. “It’s not just about the stupid egg, okay?”

Tripitaka keeps her expression neutral, earnest curiosity swallowing her annoyance for the time being. “It’s not?”

“Of course not. It’s…” He chews on his tongue for a moment, then sighs and blurts out, “It’s _her_.”

She blinks. “You mean Sandy?”

“Who else?” A fair point. She gestures at him to continue. “She’s stubborn and stupid, and she’ll freeze to death before she’ll put that thing down, just to prove some idiotic point. You know that, right?”

His features are lined with strain, his eyes gleaming; he’s not even pretending he doesn’t care. Tripitaka rewards the uncharacteristic compassion with a sincere smile.

“Yeah,” she says, reluctant but honest; if he can be, so can she. “I know that.”

“Right.” He’s wringing his hands now, like he wants to draw his staff but doesn’t want her to see he’s that agitated. “At least if we’re above ground, she’d actually get some warmth for herself before that thing sucks it all out again. We stay down here like this, and they’re both going to end up dead.”

He waves a hand, gesturing vaguely at the world around them, the subterranean murk they’ve all gotten used to in the time they’ve been down here. Tripitaka had taken for granted until today, just how cold and dark it is, how miserable and melancholy; she is only just beginning to realise how difficult it is, in this place untouched by natural light, for a body — even a god’s body, even one well accustomed to being cold and miserable — to replenish its lost warmth.

And that’s without the unborn, touch-starved creature using her as its own personal heat source.

Tripitaka sighs. “She needs heat. I know. And she won’t…”

She trails off, swallowing down her private guilt and shame.

In her hands, Sandy’s scythe catches the dim, murky light, throwing it back into her eyes as though in accusation. She hates carrying the thing — would hate carrying any weapon, in truth — but it’s the only part of herself that Sandy will let her touch. That feels meaningful somehow, a quiet sort of significance in the cool brush of metal under her palms: Sandy will let her touch the deadly blade of her weapon before she will let her touch her hand.

She shakes off the thought, upset, and looks up to find Monkey studying the scythe as well, eyes narrowed.

“Stupid,” he grumbles. “Stubborn and stupid. Won’t take care of herself before some stupid dead thing…”

Tripitaka’s too-tight chest loosens a little to hear him. He won’t ever admit that this comes from a place of caring, but he has never been particularly talented at hiding his feelings. He can’t protect her from her foolish decisions, but he will do what he can. He will rewrite their route, redirect their whole journey to make it as painless for her as possible, then pretend it all came from a place of practicality.

It is deeply touching, though Tripitaka knows better than to say that out loud. Far better, experience has taught her, to offer a little redirection of her own.

Keeping her smile well hidden, she says, “Do you think we’ll find a way back out before nightfall?”

If he notices the change of tack, he doesn’t remark upon it. He shields his eyes with one hand, squinting into the distance as though considering the question, then heaves a frustrated sigh.

“I’d really like to say ‘yes’,” he says. “But the way this stupid day is going, I wouldn’t count on it.”

Tripitaka grimaces. It is not quite so easy to hide her melancholy as it was to hide her amusement. She closes her eyes, tries to imagine the night ahead, the four of them too anxious to sleep, on edge, constantly anticipating another attack from the creatures who now have their scent.

It is not a pleasant image. She looks up at Monkey again, wills herself to draw strength from his arrogance, his strutting stride, wills herself not to see the tension in his shoulders and his jaw, the shared worry and quiet unease.

“We can handle one more night,” she says, only slightly shaky. “Right?”

Monkey doesn’t answer. He looks suddenly exhausted, like he’s been carrying a weight nearly as heavy as Sandy’s egg, and one that is draining just as much of his strength as well.

It doesn’t exactly fill Tripitaka with confidence, but she won’t add to his burden by letting him see that.

They walk in silence for a short while, each letting the other’s thoughts run their course without interruption. Monkey’s presence is an easy, comfortable thing, no matter his ill mood; even in their tensest, most troubled moments, the rough spots between argument and apology, his lean frame and long hair remain a constant source of strength to her, a subtle reminder of why she’s here, of what her quest is all about.

At last, seemingly unable to contain himself even another instant, he finally draws his staff, extending it to its full length and twirling it restlessly above his head. Tripitaka wonders if it’s the fluidity of the motion that he needs, or simply the familiar confidence that comes with holding it.

Either way, it seems to calm him enough to let him speak again. His eyes are dark when he does, though, heavy-lidded and distant, and he keeps his face turned away from her, like he’s somehow ashamed of the things he’s thinking.

“You know,” he sighs, weary and frustrated, “sometimes I wish they were right about me.”

Tripitaka blinks her confusion. “Who?”

“Gwen.” He stops to swallow midway through the name, twisting it into two syllables, strained and strangled. “And the rest of the gods who put me away. You know?”

Tripitaka definitely does not know, but she doesn’t want him to think she’s being obtuse or wilfully ignorant; he’s clearly very upset about this, and she knows how hard it is for him to try and put his messy, complicated feelings into simple words.

“Um,” she says, admittedly rather uselessly. “Yes?”

Monkey ignores her. Apparently it was a rhetorical question.

“I know that sounds stupid,” he says, still swimming in his own thoughts. “And I don’t… I mean, it’s not like I ever _would_ have killed the Master…” Even just saying the words seems to sicken him; he shudders right down to his bones. “But… that is, if I _had_ …”

His jaw is horribly pale now, clenching spasmodically, like he’s biting down on each word, forcing himself to spit them out before they choke him. Tripitaka puts a hand on his arm, trying to ground him a little, to remind him that he is here now, with her, and not back there with them, to let him know, as well, that she understands what he’s trying to say.

“If you had killed him,” she whispers, low and respectful, “maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so much?”

He flinches, a full-body tremor that makes him look unexpectedly vulnerable. He’s not like Sandy, who flinches and recoils at even the slightest thing, so used to assuming everything is a threat or an assault. Monkey is used to being the thing everyone else fears; he doesn’t often let his own discomfort show so viscerally.

“Yeah.”

The word sounds like shame on his tongue, thick and rancid, like a confession that will get him locked up all over again. Tripitaka, thinking about her own losses, the grief she could never have been prepared for, bows her head to grant them both privacy.

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she says. “You know I understand.”

“Yeah.” His voice gives him away, though, strangely soft and raw with almost-empathy. “And… you know, maybe with her, too. Gwen, I mean. If I’d just cut her down the moment I saw her, you know? Out of vengeance for what she and the other gods did to me. Even by accident, maybe. If I’d been the one to do it, if she hadn’t gotten the chance to be a damned martyr…”

He stops shaking his head. Too many ‘if’s and ‘maybe’s, it seems, to ever voice them all.

Still, even unspoken, it’s a keen blow. Tripitaka swallows thickly, feeling her own grief rise up again, stabbing sharp in her chest. Gwen’s death is still a point of great pain for her, and of personal guilt; she wonders if there will ever come a day when she doesn’t think about her sacrifice, of what it meant, and wonder if it — if _she_ — was worthy.

“She should have lived,” she hears herself choke, gripping Sandy’s scythe just as tightly as Monkey seems to be gripping his staff. “It’s my fault that she didn’t. She sacrificed herself for me, and in return I…”

“You freaked out,” Monkey finishes, “and ran away.”

Tripitaka grimaces, but refuses to hide. It is her truth, for better or worse, and she won’t insult him — any of them — by denying what she put them through.

“Yeah,” she concedes. “I freaked out and ran away.”

He nods. She can’t read his expression, can’t make out whether he’s judging her or trying to show empathy in his stilted, closed-off sort of way, but whatever his motivation he doesn’t say anything more about it. If he had any deeper feelings about her decision to leave, he’s long since shunted them aside, buried them under all the rest: learning the truth of her identity, watching her plummet to her own death, leaping in to save her, even at the risk of his own…

It’s a lot. Small wonder if he can’t carry it all.

As though sensing the tide of her thoughts, he gives his staff another flourishing twirl, like thinks he can somehow deflect the conversation with it.

“Whatever,” he huffs, retreating to a safe emotional distance. “Point is, if I’d just… you know…”

Tripitaka’s mouth goes dry. “…killed her?”

He tenses a little at the bluntness, though she has a feeling that’s more for her sake than his own.

“Yes,” he says, after a beat. “If I’d just killed her at the start, or even back then — you know, when she tried to put me away — if I’d just done the deed myself, none of it would have happened.”

“Maybe not.” Tripitaka’s tongue feels like it’s too big for her mouth. “But you would’ve _killed_ her.”

“And you wouldn’t have run away. And that…” The convulsions in his throat distorts the word, makes it sound a little ominous. “You’d never grieve or mourn for someone I’d killed. Especially if I’d done it for a good reason. You’d feel for me, maybe, for having to do it in the first place, but for her?” He shakes his head, almost violently. “You wouldn’t have even gotten to know her.”

It’s an unsettling thought, and not a pleasant one. “She wouldn’t have saved my life either.”

Monkey doesn’t want to hear that, of course. He waves his staff, as if to strike a line through the point, and says, with his usual wilfulness, “You might not have needed saving in the first place. If she was already dead…”

“We might all have died in that forest,” Tripitaka points out. “Without her guidance and knowledge, who’s to say the kin wouldn’t have just cut us down one by one?”

“Who’s to say they _would_?” He shakes his head, breathing hard, then reins in his temper with obvious effort. “You’re muddying the point, monk.”

Perhaps. But these are things she doesn’t want to hear either.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs, with very little sincerity. “Go on, then.”

He does, ruthlessly. “My point is, killing is easy. You get kind of… detached, you know? Disconnected. Like you or them aren’t really there. You don’t feel for the things you kill. Demons, gods… even humans, if you really have to. You learn not to feel anything when you do it. They deserve it, or it was an accident, or it had to happen. Doesn’t matter what, there’s always a reason. And you… you focus on that: the reason, not the person.” 

Tripitaka feels nauseous. “I… see.”

“No, you don’t.” He looks down at her, very serious. “And that’s a good thing.”

She nods her relief. “But it’s different? Not killing?”

“Yeah.” He tears his gaze away, blinking rapidly, and turns back to the horizon. Like he really believes he can hide his grief from one who knows him so well. “You don’t get to do that when it’s… when they just die. You don’t get to point at this reason or that explanation or whatever else. You don’t get to look away and see the situation or the circumstances. You only see them, dead. And you can’t…” He closes his eyes, then, like he’s trying to block out the memory of Gwen’s final moments, or the Master’s. “You don’t get to _not feel_.”

Ah.

It makes a tragic sort of sense, she supposes. In many ways, Monkey is the simplest of her companions; he wants his feelings to be like his body, disciplined and powerful, always under his complete control. He would sooner strike someone down and convince himself they were an enemy than lose them to forces beyond his control and then have to mourn them and grieve them and accept that he might have felt something for them.

She doesn’t know how to explain to him that it doesn’t work that way, that it _shouldn’t_ work that way. She doesn’t know if he’d understand even if she tried, and she has a sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t really want to.

“I don’t think killing people is the answer,” she says at last, choosing her words very carefully. “You can’t just run around taking people’s lives so you won’t have to feel anything.”

He stiffens. “I know that.”

Well, yes. She assumed — at least, she hoped — he wasn’t speaking literally. But still…

“You can’t control everything, Monkey.”

That strikes a nerve. He stops dead in his tracks, turning with his whole body to stare straight at her, and the look on his face fills her with sorrow and pain and more than a passing flicker of dread.

His eyes are darker than she’s ever seen them, shot through with a thousand shades of grief, deeper and more destructive than the lake, than its denizens, than anything she’s known. Looking into them, Tripitaka sees Gwen and the Master, and even a hint of the friendship he once believed he shared with Davari. She sees his whole life painted out in blood and pain and the stardust of dying gods’ spirits, and it is blinding and dazzling and awful.

She sees some of her own grief reflected there too, her eyes nearly as dark as his, her own losses fewer but no less painful. She wants so badly to draw some of the sorrow out of him and into herself, but she doesn’t know how. And even if she did, how could she, a weak, soft-spirited human, carry what he, the most powerful of gods, cannot? Small wonder, she thinks, that he wants to control it, that he feels he needs to.

She opens her mouth to take back the words — _you can’t control everything_ — and replace them with something kinder and gentler, something more human, but he has already heard what he wants and he won’t be placated.

“Right now,” he says acidly, “I feel like I can’t control _anything_.”

He starts walking again, then, like Pigsy has just shoved him with his electrified rake. His stride is long, powerful and purposeful, and there is something very deliberate in the way he doesn’t look back. Afraid, possibly, of seeing in her eyes the very things — the people, the friends, the lives — he’s so scared of mourning.

Heart cracking as she watches him go, Tripitaka holds her own grief a little bit tighter.

*

Two things happen before nightfall.

First: they do not find a route back to the surface. Monkey is simultaneously smug and frustrated about that, and no small measure of both. On the one hand, he’s always thankful for the opportunity to say ‘I told you so,’ but on the other he’s acutely aware of the long and miserable night that waits for them down here, and the fact that none of them can really afford it.

Second: over the course of the afternoon, to Tripitaka’s conflicted surprise, Sandy lets Pigsy take charge of the egg once in a while. Only very rarely, true, and only when the cold permeates so much of her body that she can barely walk, but still. The change is noticeable; on more than one Tripitaka has glanced over her shoulder to find Sandy walking upright and Pigsy staggering miserably with the egg in his arms.

Tripitaka has a lot of questions about that, and a lot of feelings as well, but she doesn’t get a chance to process either until they’ve stopped to make camp for the night.

Sandy has reclaimed the egg by then, and redoubled her efforts to keep it out of anyone else’s reach. She’s huddled over the fire with the thing in her arms, though she must surely realise that the weak, pallid flames won’t be enough to replenish her lost heat, and her eyes are glazed with exhaustion.

As Tripitaka moves to talk to her, Pigsy pulls her aside and whispers, “Don’t take it personally, yeah?”

Easier said than done, Tripitaka thinks, when it clearly _is_ personal.

She doesn’t say that, of course. She knows it shouldn’t matter. The only thing that does matter, she knows, is Sandy’s willingness to let someone else hold the thing, that she’s not killing herself quite so quickly in her efforts keep the wretched creature alive. That’s the only thing that matters: that she will let someone else — anyone else — take the burden from her her, even briefly, even only once every few hours.

It shouldn’t matter that it isn’t her. She shouldn’t _care_ —

Still, she can’t seem to muster a smile when she sits down beside her.

Sandy flinches, but she doesn’t get angry or feral and she doesn’t ask Tripitaka to leave her alone. She shifts a hand’s space away, reclaiming some of her personal space, then murmurs Tripitaka’s name a few times to herself, like she’s trying to make sure she’s remembering it properly.

Tripitaka wets her lips. “Feeling any warmer?”

“Not especially.” She holds the egg a little tighter. “She needs a lot, apparently. And I only have so much.”

That does not bode well, but Tripitaka knows better than to say that right now.

“How’s it doing?” she asks instead, testing the waters as delicately as she can.

Sandy blinks down at the egg, head cocked to one side, like she’s asking its opinion. She doesn’t answer the question — not that Tripitaka really expected her to — but says instead, in a low and reverent voice, “I’m thinking of calling her Tripitaka.”

Tripitaka chokes. “ _What_?” 

“I’m thinking of—”

“I heard you!” She’s still spluttering. “Why would you do that?”

“Many reasons.” Said in her usual blithe, matter-of-fact manner, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She still looks like she’s frozen and miserable, but at least in this she sounds mostly like herself; it’s comforting. “She’s clearly a survivor. Her spirit remains intact, for all the world’s efforts to end it. She draws the warmth from my body, the strength from my heart… and yet somehow, I find I can’t let her go without feeling the loss in every part of me.”

Tripitaka’s chest tightens. “Sandy…”

Sandy shakes her head. “Not to mention, of course, the fact that Monkey and I can’t seem to agree on whether she’s a boy or a girl.” Her smile is faint, but it’s there; Tripitaka musters a wan, watery chuckle. “So. Tripitaka. Fitting, yes?”

“ _No_.” It’s hard to sound aghast when she’s also a bit amused. And relieved. “Absolutely not.”

Sandy shrugs. From the look on her face, she wasn’t expecting that to go over any better than it did. “Ah, well,” she sighs. “I suppose I’ll just have to keep thinking on it.”

Tripitaka thinks of Monkey, so sure that the creature is practically in its grave already, and says, “Why would you name it when you don’t even know if it will survive at all?”

Sandy tenses. The flicker of a smile is long gone now; she is upset. She sets the egg down gently at her side, like she’s trying to shield it from the conversation, then snatches her scythe out of Tripitaka’s hands.

“Because the alternative is doing what _he_ wants,” she spits. “Accepting her death as inevitable. Abandoning her to it, casting her aside, giving her up as worthless, undeserving of even the attempt…” Her voice cracks, hoarse and wrenching, but she does not cry. “Is it really such a waste of time to believe she might be stronger than that? To believe that a living creature, however weak, might still be worthy of a name?”

She meets Tripitaka’s eyes for the first time, then, and hers are silver steel, gleaming like the blade of her weapon. Tripitaka is a little frightened and deeply, deeply sad.

“Of course not,” she whispers.

“Of course not.” To her relief, Sandy sets the weapon down, laying it gently beside the egg, both of them comfortably out of Tripitaka’s reach. “You of all people should understand the value of having _hope_.”

The word echoes horribly, making Tripitaka twitch and tremble.

At the back of her mind she hears the Scholar’s voice, as clear as if he were speaking to her still, his gentle lessons wrapping themselves like ribbons around her heart: _hope must never die_.

Her grief rushes once more to the surface, a burst of agony that wants so badly to erupt out of her in a sob, but she drives it back down. Sandy may have used the word intentionally, or she may not; either way, she will not see her reaction.

“I do understand that,” she says, voice growing hard. “You know I do.”

“Yes.” Sandy looks stricken, and ever so slightly ashamed. “I’m sorry. That was unkind.”

“Not unkind,” Tripitaka says, though she’s still unsure. “Just… tactless.”

Sandy tilts her head, acknowledging and absorbing this new truth, then seems to file it away somewhere in the mess of her mind and move swiftly on. She turns back to the fire, eyes distant and unfocused, like the strength is bleeding out of her along with the warmth, and when she sighs the weight of it wracks her whole body.

“I’m tired,” she says, very softly. “I’m cold and I’m tired, and I am not very much in control of what I say.”

It comes out strangely confessional, like she’s trying to offer more than just an apology. Tripitaka only needs to look at her to see how exhausted she is — after the day she’s had, it’s a miracle she’s still conscious at all — but somehow she gets the feeling she’s not talking about the weakened state of her body.

“I want to help with that,” Tripitaka says. “If you’d only let me, I want to…”

Sandy picks up the egg again, thoughtful but deliberate. She holds it up to the fire, watches through half-lidded eyes as it catches the light, its moon-coloured surface seeming to gleam and glimmer, little hidden rainbows flickering for a moment from within, then vanishing into nothing.

“Do you know,” she asks, “how many times I’ve almost frozen to death?”

The question comes out of nowhere, morbid and disorienting, and Tripitaka is so thrown that she blurts out, without thinking, the only answer that comes to mind:

“I’ve never really thought about it.”

Sandy laughs. Hoarse, but earnest.

“Fair. Why would you?” She draws the egg closer to her body, hugs it to her chest until she begins to shiver again, seeming to embrace the chill as much as the object, like she’s trying to send herself back into some dark, cold, miserable memory. “Many times. So many I’ve lost count. But my body wouldn’t let me freeze any more than it would let me drown or starve or sicken. Even when it was the only door left open to me, even when I _wanted_ …”

She trails off, unable to finish.

She doesn’t need to.

This, Tripitaka has thought about.

What it must have been like for a little girl alone, discarded by her family like an unwanted rag, abandoned on the side of the road with nothing but the clothes on her back and the power she did not understand blooming inside of her like a sickness or a curse. Alone and afraid, told that she was a demon, a monster, that she was dangerous, that her very existence was a threat to everyone she’d ever cared about. Believing it, maybe, because what other truth was there?

She has thought about this a lot.

She looks at Sandy, hugging the egg and bleeding out what little heat she has in her, bleeding it out by choice, with hope and faith, and she lets herself wonder for the first time, how she must have felt during that long, lonely trek to the Jade Mountain. Alone again, failed and desolate; she’d lost their monk, their human, their hope, no company but her own bad memories, rejected by the only light, the only _warmth_ she’d felt in more years than Tripitaka will ever see. She must have felt so lost, so—

 _Cold_.

Tripitaka’s heart stops, then it starts again, hammering so hard against her ribs that she’s certain Sandy must hear it.

“Did I…” She winces; it hurts even just to think it. “Did I make you feel that way? Like you… wanted to?”

Sandy bows her head, shrouding her face, her skin, her everything; if she can’t retreat, she will find another way to hide.

“I made a fire,” she says, without answering the question. “That night. After I left you to your folly and your would-be family. I made a fire by myself, and I sat beside it. But I couldn’t get warm. I felt… I don’t know. Perhaps I was in shock. But I couldn’t… I didn’t…”

She’s shaking harder. Tripitaka suspects it has nothing to do with the cold she’s feeling now, and she aches, once again, to reach out and touch her.

“Sandy,” she says in a low, regretful whisper. “I want to help. Now, I mean. I want to help you get warm, and I want to help you to keep that— to keep _her_ warm too. But you won’t let me touch either one of you.”

Sandy doesn’t raise her head. She looks almost like she’s meditating, or lost in a moment of worship. It is a strange thing to see in a god, but then Sandy has always been more worshipful than most of her kind. Once, it was Tripitaka’s name that she prayed to, her name that made her bow her head and fall to her knees; now it’s the fading spirit of a creature who will probably never see the light of day.

“You were the first person to ever touch me with kindness,” she whispers, sounding broken and small. “The first to ever touch me with _warmth_. I don’t know that I could bear to have you touch me now and find that warmth is gone.”

“I…” Tripitaka swallows. There’s a lump in her throat the size of a fist, and she can barely breathe through it. “Oh.”

“My whole life, the world has tried to kill me,” Sandy goes on, either ignoring her or simply not hearing. “To freeze me or starve me, sicken me or swallow me whole. It has discarded me, drowned me, devoured me, but it has not destroyed me. For all its efforts, it has never…” She trails off, choking down a sob, then finishes, “But one touch from you, Tripitaka… a single touch without that warmth, and I fear I would freeze to death in an instant.”

Tripitaka’s fingers tremble at her sides, fists cracking helplessly open. She would give anything to prove her wrong, to close the space between them and touch her anyway, to hold her frozen hands or cup her frozen cheek, to cover her frozen body with one smaller and softer, to prove that the warmth is still there in her, that it never died and never will.

She doesn’t, though.

Instead, she says, “That won’t happen.”

Finally, Sandy lifts her head. She peers at her through the clouded eyes of a phantom, a body dragged to its breaking point, a mind on the very edge of collapse.

“I want to believe you,” she breathes. “I want to…”

But she can’t seem to bring herself to say ‘trust’ or ‘touch’ or even ‘hope’, can’t seem to connect to any of the words they both know she means. Tripitaka can taste all of them on her tongue, each a fresh new flavour of pain, but she doesn’t know if it’s her place to say them, to give them the voice that Sandy cannot.

So she doesn’t. She scrabbles, instead, for something she can say, something that is all her own.

“Listen.” Tender and tentative, like she’s speaking to a creature as fragile and close to death as the one fading inside the egg. “I’m here, okay? My hands, my… my warmth. All of me. I’m right here and I won’t… I’m not going anywhere, ever again. So whenever you feel like you want to… whenever you feel like you _can_ …” She swallows. “I’ll still be here.”

So saying, she climbs to her feet.

She’s moving slowly, reluctantly; she doesn’t want to leave, but she’s sure this is what Sandy would want. Space to breathe, room to feel safe, shadows to hide in. She is so afraid of being crowded, of being cornered; sometimes, Tripitaka has learned, the best way to be present for someone as skittish and damaged as Sandy is to not be present at all.

Sandy looks up at her. Eyes glimmering in the almost-dark, she swallows hard and whispers, “Tripitaka.”

And she holds up a hand, lets it hang there in the space between them, an unspoken speech, a prayer without words. She doesn’t touch, doesn’t even try, but her hand is close enough now that she could if she wanted to. Close enough that Tripitaka feels, for perhaps the first time since this started, a little spark of hope igniting in her chest.

“I’m here,” she says again, with all the warmth she has in her.

Sandy’s breath catches, jagged and wet, a sound like cascading ice.

“Yes,” she says, staring at her hand like it doesn’t belong to her at all. Her fingers flex, tensing and releasing, reaching out and then retreating. “I think I want you to be.”

And she takes back her hand, hugs the egg as close to her chest as she can get it, and inches a little way away. Making room, opening up a space. She won’t accept contact — not yet — but she will allow closeness.

A small start, yes, but a start just the same.

Tripitaka nods, smiles, and sits back down.

*


	3. Chapter 3

*

It is a rough night, longer and rather more eventful than Tripitaka would like.

None of them sleep particularly well, but then none of them really expected to. No-one trusts Pigsy to stand watch after what happened the last time he tried, and the three gods unanimously agree that it’s too dangerous to risk letting their fragile human stay up alone. Tripitaka doesn’t generally approve of them making these sorts of decisions on her behalf, like she’s somehow incapable of thinking for herself, but in this case she can’t deny they have a point: with known threats lurking in the water, dark-sighted creatures who have the advantage at night, she feels unsafe enough already.

That leaves Monkey and Sandy to split the task of keeping guard, and neither one of them is at the top of their game at the moment.

Monkey in particular is twitchy and jumpy, stiffening at every sound, bracing at every shift in the shadows, lashing out with his staff at every crackle or pop from their wan little fire. More than once, Tripitaka is jolted awake by one of his warning shouts, only to find him flailing maniacally at a buzzing fly or a drip of water from the cave ceiling.

Sandy, being not quite so prone to histrionics and rather more talented at seeing in the dark, fares somewhat better, but she’s still exhausted and frozen to the bone, and her usual lightning reflexes are so dulled that Tripitaka doesn’t feel any more safe under her watch than Monkey’s.

Tripitaka would trust any one of her gods with her life, without hesitation, but right now she feels nervous and unsettled. So it’s not exactly surprising that the night passes restlessly for her as well, that she spends most of it tossing and turning, sleeping little and waking often.

The fourth or fifth time she wakes, she gives up the notion of sleep entirely, climbing stiffly to her feet and surveying the camp for signs of trouble. She finds none, of course, but she still doesn’t try to go back to sleep.

It’s Sandy’s turn to stand watch, and so Monkey is sprawled out in front of the fire, sleeping deeply but fitfully; he’s a few hand’s spaces from the egg, the two of them both drawing their own kind of warmth from the crackling flames, and his dreams are clearly troubled. He’s fidgeting, thrashing and gnashing his teeth, and Tripitaka’s attempts to calm him only seem to agitate him further.

She tucks his blanket more securely around his shoulders — the only gesture she can make, really — then steps back, watching his struggles from a sad distance. It’s not really a surprise, all things considered, that his dreams are worse than usual tonight, but that doesn’t make it any less painful to watch him twist and groan and try to fight them. She wonders, noting the salt on his cheeks, glowing in the firelight, which of his losses he’s dreaming about, whose name is caught in his throat, silenced by the clenching of his jaw.

She won’t ask. She’ll pretend, as she always does, that she never saw a thing.

She finds Sandy standing watch at the edge of the lake, peering down into the depths with her scythe held at the ready. Tripitaka wonders what it must be like to see so well in the dark, to be able to pierce the ripples and bubbles and seek out the secrets hidden beneath , to be able to see anything at all beyond shapes and shadows and endless murky gloom.

She doesn’t ask this, either.

Instead, she tilts her head towards the lake and asks, “Anything moving down there?”

“No.” A brief, calculating pause. “Not yet.”

Tripitaka musters a weak, uneasy chuckle. “You say that like you expect it to change.”

Sandy leans a little further over the water, humming thoughtfully.

“It _will_ change,” she says after a moment. “We’re at our weakest at night, most of us blind or half-blind, all of us drained and weary. They’d be foolish not to attack now.” She doesn’t turn away from the water, but her shoulders loosen as she speaks, like Tripitaka’s presence is bringing her back to herself a little, dragging the important parts of her out of those endless waters. “I’ve fought them before, if you’ll recall. I know that they’re not foolish.”

Tripitaka hasn’t seen much evidence of that herself, but Sandy would surely know better than she does and so she lets the remark pass without comment.

She takes a good look at Sandy’s face, though, while Sandy is preoccupied with her musings. She’s drawn and pale, her skin almost translucent in the dark; it reflects the lake, the shimmering ripples throwing the lines on her face into bold, phantomic relief, making her look ill. Sandy has lived her whole life in darkness far more complete than this, but looking at her now, pale and gaunt and shadow-struck, Tripitaka can’t help wondering if she’s the one who will benefit the most once they’re back on the surface, in fresh air and warm daylight.

How far they’ve all come, she thinks, from the people they were before they met.

“How long before Monkey’s watch?” she asks, more to cut through the silence than anything else. “You look like you could use some sleep.”

Sandy shrugs. “I could. But then, so could he.” She turns for the first time, looking down at Tripitaka through drowsy, half-lidded eyes. “And so could you.”

“Heh. Fair point.”

The gentle amusement doesn’t carry very far. It seldom does with Sandy; she still understands very little of social interaction, and nuances of like this tend to fly right over her head. She frowns like she’s trying and failing to make sense of Tripitaka’s tone, then shrugs off the confusion and turns to face her more fully.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she scolds, firm but not unkind. “It’s dangerous to be so close to the water while those monsters are still hunting us.”

“I know. But I saw you out here, and I thought you might like some company.”

“A thoughtful gesture.” She furrows her brow, like the concept of thoughtfulness is a strange and unsettling thing; to someone who has lived her whole life without anything oft he sort, despised by humans and demons alike, perhaps it is. “But you really ought to be sleeping.”

Tripitaka stiffens. She feels sort of, though she can’t say why. “I know,” she says again. “But I can’t.”

“Ah.” Sandy’s features soften; the expression, kind as it is, makes the lines on her face seem even deeper. “Understandable, I suppose, given the circumstances. Still, even if you can’t sleep, you should at least try to rest. Head down, body still. Rejuvenating, as best you can manage.”

Tripitaka makes a face. “I don’t know if I can do that either.”

“I see.” There is an odd, inscrutable gleam in her eyes, but she doesn’t press the issue further; instead, she cuts a nervous glance back to the fire, where her precious egg rests so close to the god who would happily dispose of it. “In that case, perhaps your time would be better spent protecting Tripitaka?”

Tripitaka ignores the request, focusing instead on the name. “I told you, we’re not calling it that.”

Sandy lifts her chin, unexpectedly defiant. “Until we think of a more fitting name, it will suffice.”

“No, it won’t!” She’s a little peeved now, but it’s a pleasant kind of peevishness, a senseless and simple kind, like the restlessness that comes from having nothing of significance to fret over. After so much fear and dread, the feeling comes as a blessed relief. “It’s a holy name, Sandy. And it’s _my_ name. I’m not sharing it with an egg.”

Lips quirking with amusement, Sandy opens her mouth to reply—

And clamps it shut a moment later, body going whipcord-tight.

Tripitaka has spent enough time with her gods to recognise what the sudden flood of tension means, and her own body starts to respond as well, nerves igniting underneath her skin by instinct, bracing for danger.

“Sandy?”

In the split-second it takes her to shape the name, Sandy has already dropped into a crouch, weapon held in front of her, both of them hungry for blood, in perfect balance, ready for anything. Teeth bared, throat pulled taut in a guttural snarl, she looks like a wild thing, feral and ravenous, a deadly match for any monster or demon, land-bound or aquatic or anything in between.

“Go back to the others,” she orders. The words vibrate on her tongue, shaping a threat. “ _Now_.”

Tripitaka hesitates. Only a moment, but she hesitates.

It’s a stupid mistake. After so long on the edge of danger, she really should know better. But apparently, for all her personal growth over the last few months, for all the skills and survival instincts she’s picked up from her gods, she still hasn’t grasped the most basic one of all.

She hesitates.

Transfixed, paralysed by the panic, the dread, the overpowering _wrongness_ that surges up from the lake to fill the cold, damp air. She is not a god, and she lacks her companions’ keen senses, but even she can feel the shift in the atmosphere and even she can see the bubbles breaking on the surface of the lake, distorting and splitting apart the smooth, still water.

She takes a step back. Then another.

Legs engaged, body tense, tight, terrified, readying to break into a run, to flee, to _escape_ —

But by now, of course, it’s too late.

They burst to the surface, a swarm of slippery, serpentine bodies. In the darkness, she can’t make out their shapes or their numbers, can’t make out much of anything beyond the writhing rhythm of their movements, the water turning to shadow, to steam, to—

 _Danger_.

It hits her like a blow, like a—

No.

 _They_ hit her.

Wet bodies throwing themselves at her, knocking her down, knocking her—

 _Down_.

She hits the floor so hard it feels more like the floor hits her. The impact reverberates all through her bones, the _crack_ of bone on stone as she lands, solid rock slamming into the side of her head, her ribs, her knees; she lands so hard it drives the breath out of her lungs, rattles and shakes the sense out of her head , punches everything out of her everything—

She hears Sandy call her name, voice rising with anger, with fear, with violence. She hears the creatures too, hissing and snarling, swarming around her, hungry and ravening. She feels their claws digging into her skin, piercing, tearing, razing—

Her throat constricts, cutting off what little breath she’d managed to cling to. She tries to scream, but she can’t; there’s nothing left of her, no voice, no sound, nothing. Clawed, webbed hands cover her mouth, her nose, suffocating her, smothering and strangling, leaving her mute and helpless, dragging her down, _down_ —

A heavy _thunk_ , juddering and disjointed, an explosion of pain in her skull, and then she’s in motion, jolted and jostled and dragged along against her will by clawed, clutching fingers. The ground is cold, the stone sharp and jagged against her skin; it scrapes across her back, biting and bruising, and then—

And _then_ —

Darkness.

Darkness everywhere. It swallows completely, engulfs her. A heavy, unbearable sort of pressure, it feels like unconsciousness, but she knows that it’s not, knows that it’s something far worse. Her body seizes, her eyes sting when she tries to open them, and there is nothing, _nothing_ all around her. She opens her mouth, tries to gulp air, but it’s gone too, nothing left but—

 _Water_.

Water everywhere. It swallows her down, fills her mouth, her throat, her lungs—

She can’t _breathe_.

She flounders, flails, grasps and grabs and grapples, but there is nothing there, nowhere to find purchase, nothing to hold onto. Nothing, only—

 _Water_.

More and more and more of it, surrounding her on all sides, pushing her down into its depths, pressure bearing down on her body like something solid, heavier than stone, heavier than anything she’s ever known in her life. The weight of it is unbearable, unfathomable, and there’s nothing she can do but let it drive her down and down and down. She can’t break through it, can’t push past it; there is no strength in her limbs, no power to resist something so vast and immense, and she can barely move at all.

It’s everywhere all at once, above her and under her, around her and inside her, pulling her down, dragging, driving, aided all the while by those hellish monsters and their sharp, serrated claws.

She’s drowning, she realises numbly.

They’re pulling her under, those sharp-clawed things, dragging her down into their depths, further and further with every breath she fails to draw, the pressure on her lungs beyond unbearable.

She is going to die here.

She is—

 _No_.

She has lived too long in the company of gods to let her human weaknesses be the end of her now.

She lashes out, using every ounce of strength she has, kicking and struggling with her legs, the only part of her with any strength left. Driving down again and again, desperate and blind, her third attempt finds purchase on something solid. One of their bodies, perhaps, or else the lake wall, she doesn’t know and she doesn’t care; the only thing that matters is that it’s there, it’s solid, and it gives her momentum.

She kicks again. Propels herself upwards, the slightest fraction.

Again, then, and a little more. And again and again, and then—

 _Surface_.

Her face bursts out of the water, gasping, wailing, barely conscious but still somehow starved. Her lungs are burning, ready to burst, and she chokes in her desperation to draw breath. There is far too much water inside her, but she manages to gulp down a lungful of sweet, salt-soaked air. One, then another, and then—

And then she’s pulled back under, dragged back into the depths—

And this time when she kicks and struggles and lashes out, there is no rock, no body, no purchase at all—

And this time when she tries to breathe, there is no rush of air, no bursting to the surface—

And this time when she tries to pierce the darkness with her stinging, blurring vision, there is no—

There is _nothing_.

Only the endless, depthless dark, the monsters who would make such a place their home, and she, who is about to die there.

*

She doesn’t, of course.

But she doesn’t realise that until long after she’s made peace with it, not until she regains consciousness with a gasp and a groan, not until she blinks her eyes open and does not see the Scholar’s face.

She comes around, safe but not especially sound, back on mostly-dry land. It’s a torture of a thing, waking up; she is blind and dizzy and confused, her eyes fused shut, and she is coughing up bursts of water, body shaking with the violence of it. 

Her whole body shudders, burning, breaking, turning itself inside-out in its desperation to purge itself of the stuff it cannot breathe. It seizes her lungs, her throat, her eyes, that flash-fire of pain and force; it seizes every part of her, inside and out, until she’s convinced there isn’t a single part of her that hasn’t felt the touch of death.

It didn’t take her, of course. She knows that much, even if she can’t yet see the truth of it for herself. Still, she doesn’t want to know how close she must have gotten, to feel its phantom fingers still locked so tight around her throat.

It is a long, long time before her body stops seizing, and then another small eternity, even after it returns to her, for the pain to subside enough that she can breathe on her own — that she can breathe _air_ , there is air for her to breathe! — and for her eyelids to unstick themselves and let her peel them open.

She’s sprawled out a short distance from the lake, face-down in a pool of water; its cold touch does nothing to stem the shards of creeping ice that seem to be taking hold of her body. The chill is devastatingly painful, but after the razor-raw screams of death and resurrection she’ll take it gladly. Her robes have been stripped away, her bare chest bruised and sore, and for a delirious moment she’s filled with the most unspeakable horror:

_I’m not him, I’m not Tripitaka, I’m a fake, a fraud, they can’t find out, they can’t know, they can’t—_

“Easy, there, little fake-monk.”

—and in the space of a word, she remembers that they know.

The voice belongs to Pigsy, a low rumble that echoes high above her head. It calms her, the words offering a gentle, pointed reminder that she is herself, that she is accepted, that she need never try to conceal her truths from them again.

She shudders, trying once more to catch her breath.

“Fill your lungs slowly.” Sandy’s voice now, even hoarser than usual. Tripitaka squints up to find her crouched in front of her, soaked through and shaking. “Slowly, steadily, and with great care. Breathe as you would eat if you’d been starved for days.”

A somewhat oblique metaphor, typical of Sandy, but somehow it helps. Tripitaka fights back the urge to gulp down as much air as her ravenous lungs can take, trying instead to breathe smoothly and evenly. Keeping her body and mind focused on the task helps them both to recover a little easier. Slowly but surely, she comes further back to herself, breathing and feeling and thinking as she did before.

She coughs a few times, then cautiously tests her voice. “Was I…?”

Though she knows the answer, she still can’t bear to say the word.

“Nah.” Pigsy’s voice carries a familiar smile, but it’s much shakier than usual; the tremors lodged in his throat, poorly concealed, say far more than his words. “You really think we’d let our favourite human drown?”

“I hope not.” Slowly and carefully, like her breathing, she sits up. “Where’s Monkey?”

“Standing watch,” Sandy says. “The creatures that tried to take you have been appropriately punished—”

“You mean killed,” Tripitaka sighs, not nearly as much under her breath as she intends.

Sandy’s shoulders lock up, but she remains otherwise unfazed. “—but there may yet be more. Monkey didn’t want to risk another surprise attack while you…”

She breaks off, coughing wetly. Apparently Tripitaka isn’t the only one with water still in her lungs.

Pigsy grimaces at the unpleasant sound, then helpfully finishes: “…while the _two_ of you are recuperating.”

Blinking up at him, Tripitaka finds the smile on his face is as shaky as the one in his voice. His focus is almost entirely on her, but every now and then he cuts a glance in Sandy’s direction as well, and Tripitaka follows his gaze to find her looking wrung out and pale, even worse than she did when she emerged from the lake all those hours ago. Guilt floods her chest, no less awful than the water, and she sighs.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to cause you so much trouble.”

“It was no trouble,” Sandy says. She’s still hoarse, but the words carry kindness and sincerity. “But perhaps you’ll heed my warning next time, and run?”

Tripitaka is blessedly spared the need to reply by Pigsy’s affirming chuckle.

“First the Jade Palace,” he remarks quietly, “and now this. Luckier than a sack of cats, you are. That makes you, what, two for two on life-saving companion-gods?”

Tripitaka thinks of Gwen, and her heart kicks savagely at her ribs. “Three.”

His expression twists a little at the reminder, lingering grief and shame chasing away the last dregs of the smile. Not that there was much of one there to begin with.

“Right,” he murmurs, his voice just as hushed and respectful as Tripitaka’s. “Three for three. As you say.”

Still crouched in front of her, eyes damp and feverishly bright, Sandy says, “Do you think you can stand?”

Tripitaka flexes her fingers, her toes, testing her body’s strengths and limits. It responds well enough to her commands, muscles and nerves engaging and moving the way she tells them to. She aches all over, like she’s been thrown into a wall a few hundred times, but she doesn’t feel any bruises or breaks inside of her, no tangible damage. She feels desperately sore, but mostly intact.

“I think so,” she says, and rises gingerly to her feet.

Sandy stands with her, stiff-jointed but not effortful. “Good,” she says, looking Tripitaka up and down as though to confirm the fact for herself. “Because you need to get warm and dry, as a matter of urgency.”

Pigsy raises a pointed brow. “You too, water-lily.”

“I…” Sandy blinks down at herself, brow furrowed, like she’s only just noticing her condition now for the first time, and sighs. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

Tripitaka winces as that sinks in. “Oh,” she says. “I made you dive in again.”

“Technically, _they_ made me dive in again. I can’t imagine you’d put yourself through such an ordeal on purpose.”

She tries to smile, but in her current state it has little effect; she’s a wretched sight, drenched and dripping and bedraggled, frozen all over again. Even without the egg in her arms, she’s shivering so violently that Tripitaka can almost hear her bones crack.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles again. “I know this is the last thing your body needs right now. You were already frozen before, and now…”

Sandy waves a dismissive hand. “It’s not a problem, Tripitaka, I promise you. You’re alive and in one piece: that’s all that matters.”

Looking at her, shivering and bleary-eyed and whiter than frost, Tripitaka isn’t quite so sure.

*

They hunker down together in front of the fire.

Pigsy wraps Tripitaka up in what feels like a hundred blankets, orders Sandy to strip out of her her wet clothes — “ _again_ ,” he chides with a sigh — and then stomps grudgingly away to help Monkey fortify their defences.

“And whatever you do,” he tosses over his shoulder as he stalks off, “don’t touch that bloody egg until you’ve got some of your blood flowing again. You hear me?”

Sandy, already inching towards the thing, retreats with a childish pout. “Wasn’t going to.”

“Liar,” Pigsy snorts. “Sit tight, both of you. Back soon.”

And then he’s gone, leaving them alone to get warm and—

And talk.

Surprisingly, it’s Sandy who breaks the silence first. Tripitaka expects her to cling to it, as stubborn as Monkey when it comes to dragging out awkward moments, but their shared brush with death has left her uncharacteristically amenable to conversation. Perhaps she simply wants to hear Tripitaka’s voice, to remind herself that the little human is indeed safe and well again, that her life really was saved.

In any case, she’s presently occupied in peeling off the sodden tatters of her clothing, and that offers a buffer for her social shyness. She keeps her head down, her attention firmly on the task, and she does not look Tripitaka in the eye as she speaks. Tripitaka knows her well enough by now to understand that the distraction is a source of comfort to her, and she doesn’t try to take it away.

Wetting her lips, keeping her face carefully shadowed, Sandy mumbles, “I touched you.”

An interesting start. Tripitaka takes a moment to parse it.

“Uh…” she manages at last. “I mean, I assume you didn’t _levitate_ me out of the lake…”

She can’t really tell whether or not Sandy grasps the feint at irony; with her face tucked out of sight and her body otherwise engaged, no part of her is free to give away a reaction.

“It was necessary,” she says, with her usual tonelessness. “Might I suggest, once this ordeal is all over, we prioritise teaching the rest of you to better function underwater?”

Tripitaka chuckles, then grows serious. It’s a good idea, and she suspects it comes from a place of pain rather than humour: a glance at her eyes when she straightens for a moment shows them cloudy and uncomprehending. It doesn’t take an expert to see that she’s reached the limit of her strength, that it will take more than a blanket and a fire to get her warm, more than a couple of hours’ sleep to shake off the exhaustion.

Studying her, even as she pretends not to, Tripitaka feels another wave of guilt, and an echoing pain of her own.

“I don’t think it would help much,” she admits reluctantly, “even if you did try to teach us. Your talents are… well, they’re kind of unique, aren’t they? I don’t know if any of us will ever be able to do what you can.”

 _And I’m sorry for that,_ she doesn’t add, knowing that Sandy would just wave it away.

She acknowledges the point only briefly, shrugging as she ducks her face back out of sight. “We all have our strengths, I suppose. Mine have served me well over the years; I won’t belittle them.”

“Yeah.” Tripitaka swallows hard. “Sandy, I…”

“As I said, it doesn’t matter.” She steps out of the last of her wet clothes, hangs them over the fire to dry, then sits down by Tripitaka’s side, shivering miserably in her underthings. She’s less than a hand’s space away from where Tripitaka is swaddled, but she doesn’t try to reach for a blanket. “My point is, I touched you and now I’m freezing again. Coincidence?”

“Uh.” For a long moment she can only stare, unable to figure out whether Sandy is being serious or not. “It is, actually, yes. I mean, it’s pretty much the definition of ‘coincidence’.”

“Oh.” Apparently she was being serious after all, because she responds to this like it’s some kind of revelation. Head cocked to one side, brow creased in genuine, earnest befuddlement, she presses, “Are you certain?”

“Yes.” Tripitaka swallows a laugh. It feels good to be able to find one, to be able to suppress it. “Sandy, you’re freezing again because you jumped into an ice-cold lake for the second time in a day. Not because you happened to touch me in the process.”

“Ah.” She takes a couple of moments to absorb that, then nods thoughtfully, like it’s a great weight off her shoulders. “You’re absolutely positive there’s no connection?”

“ _Sandy_.” It takes a great force of effort to keep her smile on the appropriate side of exasperated. “My touch didn’t freeze you. I’m human. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. I…”

And just like that, the amusement is gone.

Sandy blinks, seeming to recognise the shift in her but not really understanding its cause. “Hm?”

“I’m sorry,” Tripitaka says quietly. “I mean, I’m grateful, but I’m also sorry. That you had to touch me, that you had to dive back into the lake… all of it. You saved my life, even though it meant freezing again, even though it meant touching me. I know you were afraid of that, and I… I’m sorry you had to, and I’m grateful that you did it anyway.”

It comes out in a rush, almost incoherent, and Sandy just sits there staring at her like the words were a physical blow; she looks a little bit dazed, like she’s reeling, and when she speaks it is with the dizzy slur of someone who’s been punched in the mouth.

“I…” She ducks her head, shyly now. “Yes. Um. I did. I…”

The look on her face is achingly broken, like the words have been pulled out of her against her will, thrown into the lake before she has a chance to realise what she said, and sinking so deep so fast that even she won’t be able to retrieve them.

She tries, though, wringing her hands anxiously in her lap, struggling to find her voice again, or perhaps a way of expressing herself that doesn’t hurt so much, that isn’t so difficult or confusing. Tripitaka watches the conflict play out across her features, instinct and emotion clashing and warring with each other, and she waits with as much patience as she can for the moment to resolve, for Sandy’s mind to rearrange itself into something cohesive.

It takes a while. It always does. Tripitaka keeps the smile on her face, keeps it soft, and prompts, ever so carefully, “Sandy?”

“Yes.” She clears her throat, hoarse and raw, and shakes herself back to the present. “Well. I’m already freezing, as you know. We’ve established this.”

Tripitaka nods, gently encouraging. “We have, yes.”

“And you…” The word cracks, and she has to swallow a few times before she’s able to continue. “That is, it seems that you have all the blankets. So perhaps…”

This time, when she stops, it’s obvious that she can’t go on.

Not that it matters. For all her inability to speak coherently, she’s far from subtle, and Tripitaka thinks she can grasp the gist of what she’s trying to ask.

“Sandy.” She tries to soften herself even further, her smile, her shoulders, every part of her that Sandy might still find too abrasive and intimidating. “Do you want to share the blankets?”

“No.” And yet, even as she says it, she’s inching towards her. “That is… perhaps some of them?”

Tripitaka sighs, playful and secretly delighted, and draws open the blankets wide enough for Sandy to sidle even closer. Close enough to draw some warmth from the weighted fabric, close enough to settle underneath the largest one. Close enough that, if they both shift just right at precisely the right moment—

 _Contact_.

Not to save a life this time, not to protect or defend or fortify, not from any kind of necessity at all. Contact, _touch_ , Sandy’s skin — still as cold as crushed ice — brushing against Tripitaka’s, pressing into her at shoulder and hip and thigh, all the places that were only just beginning to feel warm again.

Tripitaka can’t help herself. Shivering all over again, she says, “Whose touch is freezing whom?”

Sandy doesn’t answer. She’s staring down at the points of contact, eyes wide and mouth half-open, seemingly oblivious to the blanket being pulled across her shoulders. Well, that makes sense, Tripitaka supposes; they both know it wasn’t the blankets she was asking for.

The contact lingers. One heartbeat, then five, then ten. And still Sandy doesn’t speak. Still she does nothing but stare, half-blind and lost, with that same dumbstruck, slack-jawed disbelief on her face, like she can’t believe what’s happening: that they are touching, that they are freezing and yet still somehow they are both still alive.

It feels so insignificant to Tripitaka, contact without complication. Ever since her secret came out, since the fear of discovery melted away like snow in spring rain, she’s found there is little in the way of contact that bothers her. It is refreshing, wonderful, a burden lifted, to think that a touch like this, a touch that would have once meant so much, now means nothing at all.

To her, yes. But to Sandy…

To Sandy, nothing means nothing. Everything has meaning, everything has power and significance and purpose, and contact has more of all those things than anything else in the world. Tripitaka knows how much of her life was spent without ever knowing a kind touch, knowing no contact but violence and cruelty, and she knows that she’s still adjusting to being touched at all.

In all the time they’ve been travelling together, Sandy has never offered more than the briefest, most tentative flickers of contact. An awkward pat on the shoulder or arm, a hand offered and then quickly snatched back, a dozen half-moments, sort-of-moments, barely there at all before they’re extinguished or shattered or withdrawn.

She was afraid of being touched, Tripitaka realises, long before she was afraid of what it might mean for them.

Oh, but they are touching now. Delicate and fragile, yes, but the contact lingers and Sandy does not try to break it.

“It would appear,” she murmurs, almost to herself, “that I was worried for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” Tripitaka says gently. “I know why you were worried. I get it.”

“Oh, good.” Said, as always, without a trace of irony. “Perhaps you could explain it to me, then.”

Tripitaka wets her lips, chasing away the fond smile that wants to break to the surface. It’s enough of a challenge already, communicating with Sandy when she’s confused and vulnerable; letting her own feelings slip their bonds would only frighten her. One day, perhaps, Sandy will understand such things well enough to be receptive, but until then Tripitaka has to tread lightly.

“I think,” she says, with some delicacy, “that you were afraid of being rejected again. You felt… I think you felt like I had abandoned you once already, and you were frightened that the experience would repeat if you let me touch you again.”

Sandy hums. “Perhaps so.”

There’s no accusation or judgement to the words; she’s gazing inwards at her own heart, not at Tripitaka’s actions, but still it evokes a twinge of guilt and shame.

“You had every right to feel that way,” Tripitaka tells her. “You put all the pieces of yourself into my hands. Your faith, your devotion, your heart, everything you had. You let me touch them, let me hold them. You trusted me to take care of them, and instead I threw them away and told you they were worthless. Of course you’d be scared to let me touch you again. Who wouldn’t be?”

Sandy has gone tense again; they’re still so close that Tripitaka can feel the shift as it happens, her muscles growing taut under the weight of her words, the strain vibrating through both their bodies. It is a sad sensation, sort of, but after so much distance there is a kind of comfort to it as well, like she is being offered a precious gift in being allowed to feel her fear so intimately.

“You understand my feelings better than I do,” Sandy whispers at last, sounding awed and a little broken. “Or maybe you’re simply better at putting them into words.”

“I don’t know if I’d say that,” Tripitaka says. “But I do know that I’d be uncomfortable, too, about letting someone touch me again if they’d hurt me once already.”

Sandy’s mouth twitches, like a part of her wants to say something but she doesn’t really know what. Maybe she still doesn’t fully understand her feelings, maybe she is simply afraid of exposing them, as shy about her heart as her touch, her skin. Tripitaka understands that too.

She closes her eyes, as much for her own sake as to grant Sandy a little privacy. It’s the first time she’s spoken about it so candidly, the rippling effect of her selfish mistakes on the people she cares about, and the truth is a hard pill to swallow.

Even with her eyes closed, she can feel Sandy watching her, can feel the cracked, rusty wheels in her head turning and grinding, trying to figure out how far to believe her, how much faith to give back to the person who has so abused it. She wishes she could promise that it will never happen again, that she has grown and learned and evolved, that she is better now: a better person, a better, more deserving Tripitaka.

She wishes she could make any kind of promise at all, but she can’t.

She is, after all, only human. Weak, fallible, human. And Sandy is a god, with a god’s faith and a god’s devotion and a god’s love. She is vast and fathomless and she feels so much, so deeply, so completely; Tripitaka cannot promise she will ever be strong enough to touch those things without tainting them or tearing them apart.

But for now, at least, the contact seems to be enough. Such as it is.

When she opens her eyes, she finds Sandy’s wide and glittering. She’s is still touching her, reaching up with trembling fingertips to trace the ridges of Tripitaka’s ribs, her side, her back, and she’s staring at the exposed skin like she’s never seen anything like it before, like it is the most unimaginable thing in the world, like she feels shaken just to be a part of it, to be warmed by something she’d thought would leave her frozen.

It is a long while before her shyness gets the better of her, before she shakes herself and realises what she’s doing, who she’s touching, how intimate the moment is, and the reaction when she does is immediate. She withdraws completely, colouring as much as her impossibly pale skin ever colours, and hides her face like she’s ashamed of herself for getting so carried away.

Tripitaka, unsurprised by by by the flood of self-consciousness, follows her gaze as it drifts along with her thoughts, landing on a safer source of emotion: the egg she loves so well, its moonlight-coloured surface glistering like gold in the firelight.

Finally, in a reverent sort of whisper, Sandy says, “I saved you both from drowning.”

Her morbid choice of subject-change takes Tripitaka somewhat by surprise, as it so often does, but she tries not to let the discomfort show. “Uh. Yes, you did. Thank you for that.”

Sandy nods, though it’s clear that’s not why she’s saying it. “I’d do it again,” she murmurs. “For either of you. Even if it meant freezing again. I wouldn’t hesitate, not even for a single second.”

“I know you wouldn’t.” She bites her lip, strangely and suddenly overwhelmed. “I know you’d do whatever it took to save us, even if it meant suffering again.”

Sandy shrugs. “I’m used to suffering. You’re not. It’s simple.”

“Is it?”

The briefest of twitches, tension resurfacing for less than a moment before it’s smothered again, this time completely.

“Well.” She almost smiles. “Perhaps not _that_ simple.”

“Perhaps not.” Tripitaka chuckles, wan and watery. “You… I don’t really know if you’re really able to do anything simply. You know? I don’t know that you’re able to give just a single piece of yourself. When you…” A pause as she struggles for the right words. Sandy is flushing again, and biting her lip; Tripitaka knows this means to trad carefully. “When you feel something for someone — a person, a creature, even an egg — I think you only really know how to feel with all of yourself.”

She doesn’t just mean _feel_ , of course. She means _give_. And she means _love_.

Sandy understands that, possibly more than she’ll admit. With a curious, contemplative look on her face, she holds up a hand, letting the lines and ridges catch the light of the fire, until her skin — as pale and ethereal as her precious egg — reflects it in the same shade of gold.

“I think…” she muses, speaking almost to herself. “I think I would really like to call her Tripitaka.”

The laugh that bursts out of Tripitaka’s chest is clogged with tears and the lingering taste of brackish water.

“After this,” she says, swallowing it back down, “you can call her whatever you like.”

*

And so, against her better judgement, the name sticks.

Sandy is overjoyed, of course, at least as much as she ever shows joy. It’s more a sort of confused giddiness, the way she gets sometimes when her mind can’t quite catch up with her heart, but Tripitaka understands well enough that it means a great deal to her. It seems to warm her, somehow, having the name on her tongue and turning it to something she trusts without any complications.

Tripitaka should probably feel a little stung by that, but it’s hard to take it personally when Sandy is smiling for the first time in days.

Pigsy is characteristically indifferent, quirking a brow for about half a second then shrugging the whole thing off as just another one of Sandy’s indecipherable quirks. “Ah well,” he quips. “At least she had the good sense to pick something we’ll remember, eh?”

Monkey, on the other hand, is furious.

Really, dangerously furious. None of his usual grunting and grumbling, the under-the-breath annoyance and passive-aggressive eye-rolling, none of the thunder-faced sullenness that Tripitaka expects; this is genuine, seething rage.

“You let her do _what_!?”

It is not often that Tripitaka feels afraid of her gods, but she feels very close to it now.

Self-control has never been Monkey’s strong point, and he’s frayed now beyond even his usual limits. Like the rest of them, he hasn’t had nearly enough sleep over the last couple of days, and it shows; his eyes are bloodshot and rimmed with red, his face a livid threat, and when he moves it’s with the jerky twitchiness of someone running on adrenaline, anger, and very little else.

It is incredibly tempting, when he throws himself into her personal space, fists trembling in front of him, to flinch back, to let him see how unnerved she really is. A part of her wants to, unsettled as she is by his raggedness, but she holds her ground by force of will, drawing the blanket more tightly around herself as a shield against his wrath, and looking him steadily in the eye.

“It’s not a problem,” she says carefully. “Let her call the silly thing what she wants.”

“Don’t see why it bothers you, anyway,” Sandy mumbles sourly. She’s long since left Tripitaka’s side, and has sat herself once more in front of the fire, hugging the egg and wilfully ignoring Pigsy’s warnings to leave it alone until she’s a bit warmer. “You’ve made it quite clear that you want nothing to do with her, or me. Why not simply ignore this, as you claim to ignore everything else?”

“Because this is different,” he barks, like it’s obvious. “It’s fine when your stupidity only affects you. You can make yourself sick crying over that thing, for all I care. But calling her _that_ —”

He stops, looking uncomfortable. The rage on his face flickers for a moment, replaced by something vividly vulnerable; it lasts less than the length of a breath, smothered again almost immediately, but still Tripitaka sees it.

Sandy does not. She’s blinking up at him, brow furrowed, expression flitting between annoyance and confusion.

“I don’t see how my choice of name would affect you,” she says slowly. “At least, no more than anything else I’ve done with her.”

“Of course you don’t.” His shoulders start to shake slightly as he speaks, exhaustion overpowering what little restraint he still has over his passions. “You never see anything.”

Tripitaka sighs, then gives up and struggles up to her feet. She’s still tired and shaky from her latest brush with death — she wonders, briefly, if she’ll ever get used to that last-moment-on-earth feeling — and she can’t bear the thought of having to sit here for the rest of the night and mediate an argument she neither understands nor particularly cares about.

Whatever Monkey’s problem is, experience has taught her that it’s best to try and deal with it as quickly and painlessly as possible and then, with any luck, move on and leave it behind.

“Monkey,” she says, not even bothering to hide her weary exasperation. “Let’s go for a walk.”

He starts at that, coming back to himself enough to look her up and down. “No, no,” he says, hastily trying to rein himself in, “You’re still, uh, recuperating. Wouldn’t want you to overdo it.”

“A little stroll won’t do her any harm,” Pigsy volunteers cheerily. “And if it gets you and your bad mood out of my sight for a few minutes, so much the better.” He sobers a little, glancing back at Tripitaka. “Listen to your body, yeah? You get tired, you come right back. No dawdling and no bloody bravado. You hear me?”

Tripitaka nods, already climbing back into her robes. They’re mostly dry now, warmed by the fire, and it soothes her more than she’ll admit to put them back on. For something she was forced into by necessity and not choice, the monastic attire has become like a kind of security blanket, familiar and comfortable; she doesn’t know when it happened exactly, but somewhere after the Jade Palace, the robes and the name, all the big and small things that come with carrying the name — with being _Tripitaka_ — started to fit. Now, wrapped up in the bulky, baggy fabric, she feels like she’s home.

If only Monkey were so easily placated.

She sets a slow, casual pace, and waits until they’re a safe distance away from camp, well out of earshot of even the most observant gods, before she turns to him and says, “What’s this really about?”

He tenses. “Do you even need to ask?”

Well, maybe she’s as stupid as he thinks Sandy is, because—

“I do, actually.”

He growls his frustration, then mutters something under his breath. Tripitaka thinks she catches an insult, followed by a sullen, “It’s not exactly _complicated_.”

She lets him sulk for a moment, then tries to meet his eye. It doesn’t work, of course; typically evasive, he keeps his gaze fixed on the horizon, no doubt pretending to keep an eye out for more enemies. The part of her that is still a little frightened can’t help feeling grateful, and for once his caginess makes it easier for her to continue.

“Sandy’s right,” she points out. “You’ve told us a million times that you don’t care about that egg, or what happens to it. You’ve made it into a whole big issue, even. Why can’t you let her call it whatever she likes and just go back to ignoring them both? You’ve never had any trouble before.”

“She wasn’t naming it after _you_ before.”

“What difference does that make?” She means it sincerely, for all his obvious agitation; if that does makes her stupid, so be it. “You said it yourself: it’s going to die anyway. What does it matter if—”

 _Oh_.

Yeah. She’s definitely stupid.

The realisation brings every part of her to a full stop. She stops speaking, stops walking, even stops thinking for a blindsided moment, and it takes a long while, motionless in everything, for it to fully sink in.

Monkey, grinding to a halt at her side, has gone rigid too, every muscle in his body seeming to seize and spasm, like it’s enough, even just hearing the words, to drive a blade through his heart.

“I’m not burying you,” he says in a ragged, broken sort of voice. “ _Any_ version of you.”

Tripitaka doesn’t know what to say. It’s ridiculous, of course, but then so is the idea that her fragile human touch could freeze a god to death, the idea that she alone could be enough to lead either one of them out of their dark corners. It is ridiculous, at least to Tripitaka, that she might mean that much to him or to her, that they might care so deeply, so completely that the very thought of losing her — one way or the other — would drive them both to believe such impossible, ridiculous things.

She takes a few moments to reorient herself, breathes slowly and carefully, ever aware of the ache in her chest where her lungs rejected too much water. Monkey and Sandy have both saved her life now, she realises numbly; they both took a leap of faith to catch her in a fall that should have been endless. They both threw themselves into the abyss just to drag her back out of it, and she realises now, for possibly the first time, they’re both still reeling from that. Her life has affected theirs so deeply. She had no idea…

“You’re not going to bury me,” she says to Monkey, soft but thick with passion. “Even if we do bury that creature, even if Sandy does call it…” She hesitates, wetting her lips, drowning in the anguish behind his eyes. “I’m more than just the name.”

Saying the words aloud, she feels a loosening in her chest, like she’s coughed up the last of the water without even realising it. It took a long, long time for the reality to sink in, for her to really understand that she could be herself and Tripitaka at the same time. that she could claim the name and not lose sight of her own identity, her own life. It was hard-won, the self-awareness to embrace both, and she won’t surrender it now. Not for Monkey, not for Sandy, not for anyone. The name is hers, yes, but that's because she has claimed it for herself. It does not define her any more, and it never will again.

“Of course you’re more than the stupid name,” Monkey snaps. “But it’s still a part of you. When that thing dies… when she buries it in and cries her stupid heart out and calls it ‘Tripitaka’, are you really going to be okay with that?”

Tripitaka has no immediate answer , and she doubts there is an easy one. She is no more comfortable than he is with the idea of hearing her own name said in mourning, but she understands — as he so seldom does — that this is not about her feelings, or his.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m okay with it,” she says. “Or if you are. Sandy wants to call it that. It’s important to her. And she just saved my life.”

“Yeah, well, so did I.” His features twist, then, like he wants to take back the words and the painful memory it brings back for them both, but he’s too stubborn to back down from the point. “And I don’t see you rushing to tell her that _she_ has to suffer for what _I_ want.”

Well. That’s true. But…

“I hurt her,” Tripitaka confesses quietly. “When I tried to leave the quest, when she came after me to try and bring me back. I treated her terribly.” She takes a deep breath, bracing herself for the painful part, the part that isn’t really hers to share but which Monkey deserves to hear if he’s going to suffer for this too. “I don’t… I’m not sure if she’s self-aware enough to realise it, but I think I broke her heart. I think…”

Monkey barks a loud humourless laugh, cutting her off.

“Of course she realises it,” he says, flat and just a little bit spiteful. “She’s been in love with you right from the start. Before the start, probably. But do you really—”

He cuts himself off with a strangled, choking sound, and the look that flashes across his face — so brief she almost misses it — is so crushed and helpless that Tripitaka feels like she’s dying all over again, falling and drowning, both at the same time, only neither of her gods are there to save her this time.

“Monkey?” she presses in a whisper.

“Forget it.” He’s still not looking at her, but he’s given up by now on pretending to look around for enemies; he’s just blinking down at the ground, angry and sad, like he’s hoping it will swallow him and spare him the pain of having to talk any more about his feelings. “Clearly, it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” she says. “Monkey, please. Talk to me.”

He hesitates, as she knew he would, for only a fraction of a second. Monkey is not like Sandy, fluid and fragile and so hard to touch; where she is living water, flowing and drifting and distant, he is like fire, incendiary and powerful, and when he is already upset and angry it takes very little to make him explode.

“Fine!” The word is a roar, no doubt loud enough for the others to hear back at camp. He throws up his hands in a fit of temper, then swiftly tucks them behind his back, ashamed of the outburst and perhaps wary of their power as well. “You broke _both_ our hearts, you stupid little monk.”

Tripitaka blinks. She’s thrown, though a part of her feels like maybe she shouldn’t be. “I… what?”

“You almost _died_.” His voice is rising again, anger and pain and the now-familiar grief; his control is at its most tenuous here, and she steps back to give him room both physical and emotional. “In that stupid forest. You almost died there. And then, after, you left. Just walked away without saying a word. You could’ve died out there, too, and we’d never have known.”

“I was careful,” Tripitaka says gently. “And Sandy was with me.”

Monkey’s eyes flash danger at that, another flare of rage. “Right,” he snarls. “For all the use she was.”

“That’s not—”

“Whatever.” He waves a hand. She thinks he means to try and brush away the point, but his fingers are balled into a fist and he doesn’t look particularly dismissive. “And then you got taken by Davari, and you almost died _again_. And now _this_. Those stupid things in that stupid lake. And you…”

He stops, turning away completely, like he can’t bear the thought of her seeing his face right now, or perhaps like he can’t bear to look at hers.

Tripitaka sits down heavily. What little strength she regained has well and truly evaporated now.

“…and I almost died a third time,” she finishes in a low whisper, touching her chest, recalling the pain of water filling her lungs, the terror of _nothing_ all around her, the certainty that this time, _this time_ …

She shudders, grateful that Monkey is still facing away from her, that he’s still too caught up in his own weakness to turn back and see hers. Sometimes, apparently, she needs a little bit of privacy as well.

Monkey, meanwhile, is shuddering too, with the weight of his own emotion. He doesn’t turn around, but the pain dripping off his tongue when he speaks makes it all too easy to imagine the look on his face.

“And now you want me to stand there and not care while she buries a dead thing with your name.”

His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, the only part of him she can really see; twitching and trembling, they give away so much of his pain and grief, so much of his heart. Even with his face hidden from view, Tripitaka can see the loss behind every shudder, every spasm, everything. She wants to reach for those hands, to take them in her own and hold them until the tremors start to subside, until the pain and the loss subside along with them.

She can’t, though, and so she doesn’t try. Even if she wasn’t a weak, powerless human, she wouldn’t be able to take away someone else’s suffering by touch alone. No-one can do that, not even the Monkey King.

And so, in lieu of any way to make it easier, she settles for the softest, most painless truth she has:

“It’s not dead yet, Monkey. And neither am I.”

At last, in a frenzy, he whirls back to face her. His eyes are blazing, as feverish and bright as Sandy’s when she emerged from the lake, as deadly as her darkest moments, as both of their worst memories.

“You know that thing is living on borrowed time,” he snarls. “She can pretend all she likes that it stands a chance, but that won’t make it true. And _you_ …” His voice breaks, but he doesn’t back down; as with so many things he cares about, it’s become a point of pride. “One of these days, monk, you’re going to run out of gods to rescue you.”

It is a near-impossible thing, trying to smile through her own heartbreak, but she manages it to try and ease his.

“I don’t know about that,” she says. “I’m the one who walked away, remember? Not any of you. And even when I did…”

She trails off, unable to say what she knows to be true: that even then, at her most stubborn and selfish, still one of her gods was there to try and save her. It wasn’t Sandy’s fault that her pleas fell on deaf ears; it wasn’t her fault that Tripitaka, for once, did not wish to be saved.

The memory strikes hard, regret cutting through her all over again. Gwen’s dying words echoing in her head, the weight of her own deception bearing down on her shoulders, on her heart, on every broken part of her, and she was too weak and too exhausted to carry it any further. Feeling unworthy, undeserving, wishing that it really could be so simple: turn around and leave, surrender the life she never wanted, never asked for, give up the quest…

Like she could ever outrun this life, this quest, this—

 _Them_.

She should have listened. She should have looked up with an open heart, should have been brave enough to look Sandy in the eye and see that her pain was real, that it was true and raw and terrible, that it was—

That _she_ was—

“She screwed up,” Monkey says, interrupting coldly.

Tripitaka blinks, jolted back to the present. “What?”

“She screwed up.” Harder, colder; he sounds like she felt when Sandy was trying to tell her all those things she didn’t want to hear. “She went after you. She sent us off to the Jade Mountain and she went after you by herself. She said she’d talk sense into you, said she’d bring you back. But she didn’t, did she? Didn’t protect you, didn’t bring you back, didn’t do anything. Just turned around and let you get captured by Davari.”

“That’s not how it was,” Tripitaka says quietly. “I told her to let me go. She…”

 _No_.

That part isn’t his to know. The part where she is the one who screwed up, who refused to listen or hear or pay any attention at all to what was right in front of her. The part where Sandy tried and tried and tried to make her see the terrible truth, where she held out a hand to try and stop her from drowning, but this time Tripitaka did not want to be saved.

She let her feelings guide her, too hard and too fast and too far away from what was real, and she chose to drown in lies rather than accept that breathing in the truth might hurt.

Maybe some small part of her felt like she deserved it. Maybe, as Sandy said, she just wanted so badly to believe in something — a life, a family, anything — that she could be part of.

It doesn’t matter.

It happened, it’s done, it’s finished. They survived, they reunited, and they saved a small piece of the world.

That should be enough.

It should be—

It doesn’t _matter_.

Besides, Monkey is already moving on. Perhaps it was enough to get his frustrations off his chest, to point his fingers at someone, even if he knew she wasn’t really to blame. Either way, he doesn’t seem any more inclined to talk about it than Tripitaka is, and she is perfectly happy to let the subject go, to soften again as he does, his eyes growing dark with a fresh wave of grief.

“Look,” he says. “I get it.”

“Do you?” she asks, desperate all over again to believe in something that is not true. “Really?”

He shrugs. “She’s got stuff to deal with from whatever happened between you. Either she feels bad because she screwed up, or because you did, or because you both did. Whatever. Point is, she’s got stuff, right?”

“I…” She sighs. “Yes.”

“And she’s doing that thing she does, trying to deal with her stuff in some crazy, stupid way that makes sense to her and no-one else. That dumb egg she’s gotten so attached to…” He waves a hand. “Whatever. I get that it’s all a part of it. The ‘healing process’, or whatever. But she…”

He stops, swallowing audibly; the sound resonates, razor-sharp, and Tripitaka’s throat constricts in sympathy. “She has a lot of pain. Pain about… about discarding things. Abandoning them.”

“I know that.” His voice rises with anger; his throat clenches again as he tries to rein it in. “But she’s not the only one with stuff to work through, monk. And her stuff is…” He flushes hot, ashamed, even humiliated, but refuses to back down from the confession now that he’s started it. “It’s making _my_ stuff worse.”

Tripitaka sucks in a breath; her lungs burn.

She should have seen this coming, she supposes. But isn’t it just like her to avoid the truth until she can’t?

“Monkey,” she says, very carefully. “I don’t think that’s what’s happening.”

He glares. “Yeah, it is.”

“No, it’s not.” Still gentle, as much as she can be, but he bristles just the same, by instinct, like she’s throwing a punch. She gives him a moment to draw back a little of his righteous anger, then tries again. “Monkey. I understand that your grief is a painful, terrifying thing. I understand that it’s just as painful and terrifying as Sandy’s fear of abandonment. Your stuff, her stuff, it’s all painful and it’s all terrifying. But this…”

“That thing,” he says, dripping acid.

“That thing,” she agrees quietly. “This is her way of trying to work through hers. In her weird, confused way, she is trying. And you…” She turns her face away, unable to look him in the eye. “Monkey, you’re _not_.”

Even without looking at him, she can feel him stiffen, every muscle in his body locked up and shaking with hurt and rejection. For a moment she’s worried he’ll reach for his staff, maybe even threaten to use it on her, but of course he doesn’t. No matter how much he loses himself, that’s a line she knows he will never cross.

It takes him a moment to find his voice, and when he does it is jagged and pitchy, shot through with more bitterness and rage than she has heard from him in a very long time.

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” She lets the question hang on the air, lets it act as a barrier between them, a cushion for the harder blow still to come. “Are you really angry because Sandy’s making it harder for you to work through your grief? Or are you just angry because she’s making it harder for you to _hide_ from it?”

She catches hold of her courage, then, and lifts her head to look him in the eye. If she’s going to accuse him, she owes him that.

The rage she finds, she anticipates.

The glimmer of tears, she does not.

He doesn’t speak again for a very long time. Can’t, maybe, or else he feels so betrayed he doesn’t want to waste his words on her. Either way, he just stares down at her for minutes upon minutes, working his jaw like he’s trying to keep his feelings shoved down and out of sight, like he somehow thinks he can prove her wrong by doing the very thing she’s just accused him of.

Tragically bemused, Tripitaka thinks she will never understand the inner workings of her gods’ minds.

“So what?” he says at last, a sullen, angry mutter. “She gets to do whatever she wants because she’s ‘working through’ her stuff, or whatever? Even if it hurts other people?”

“Of course not,” Tripitaka says, thankful to her voice for making her sound calmer than she feels. “But I’m not going to stop her from doing what she feels she needs to work through her pain just because it makes it harder for you to _not_ work through yours.”

It is a weight tugging at her heart, having to say any of this at all, having to feel both of her gods’ suffering and trauma clash and clamour inside her, all the terrible ways they are so different and all the terrible ways they are so alike.

Monkey stands there, reeling and furious. “So that’s it?”

“I…” She sighs. “Monkey, I want to help you work through your grief. I want that more than anything in the world.” His eyes light up for a moment, then immediately darken as he realises where she’s going with this. “But I won’t help you _avoid_ it. Do you understand? Ignoring your problems, hiding from your grief, pretending not to feel anything… it’s not healthy.”

“Seriously?” His voice is diamond-hard. “You think I’m going to take advice on ‘processing grief’ from someone who handled theirs by running away?”

The words land like a blow, almost worse than if he really had taken a swing with his staff. They rock her like an earthquake, like a concussion, like dying, and leave her feeling violently sick.

“That’s not fair,” she whispers, unashamed to let him see exactly how much it hurts.

“Isn’t it?” The look on his face is a nightmare, blinded by anger and misplaced spite; it fills her stomach with stones to look at him, to hear him lash out again and again and again. “You’re the reason she has to ‘work through’ her stupid abandonment issues in the first place. And you’re trying to lecture _me_ on how to deal with _my_ stuff?” He laughs, cold and more than a little wild. “No thanks, monk.”

She knows, of course, that he’s just striking blindly, deflecting his pain onto the nearest available target as he so often does, trying to lessen his own pain. She knows this, she’s seen it a thousand times before. But knowing it doesn’t soften the blow at all. For a moment, she feels just like she did when she was drowning, like there is no air, like her lungs are starving, screaming, readying to burst—

“Monkey.” The name comes out like a plea, like she’s calling for help, for someone to save her. “I…”

“We’re done here,” he says, turning his back on her to underline the point. “If you really want to help, tell her to stay the hell away from me.” A glance over his shoulder, eyes glinting danger in the murky dark. “Unless you want to bury _two_ dead things.”

And as he storms off, leaving her alone, Tripitaka feels the air around her grow even colder.

*


	4. Chapter 4

*

By the time she finds the strength to go back to camp, Pigsy is working on breakfast.

He’s keeping mostly to himself, subdued and quiet, no doubt sensing the tension still hanging heavy on the cold, wet air. Usually he takes great joy in preparing their meals, humming and talking to himself as he works, shouting out cheerful instructions and then playfully criticising anyone who makes even the slightest mistake. 

Now, though, he’s eerily silent, speaking up only when he needs to measure something or remind himself of a particular step in the task. It’s unsettling, and it makes Tripitaka nervous in a way she’s not used to feeling around Pigsy.

The others are quiet too, but that’s rather more usual.

Sandy is watching Pigsy as he labours over the meal. She’s glassy-eyed, seemingly only half-aware of where she is, and she’s hugging the egg with a fierce, savage protectiveness, like she’s afraid Monkey will lunge in and steal it from her if she lets her guard down for even a moment.

Which, looking at him, may not be all that unlikely.

He’s keeping to himself too, as he frequently does when he feels wounded, pacing in jagged, moody circles around the campfire and swinging his staff at nothing in particular. Tripitaka doesn’t need to see the taut lines deepening across his face to know that he’s still angry, and so she takes care to give him space.

Perhaps there’s a part of her that wants some space for herself as well, still stinging from his diatribe, the accusation ringing in his voice, the cold, hard words…

She shakes off the lingering misery, and refocuses her attention with some effort to Pigsy. Even as subdued as he is just now, his company is still preferable to Monkey’s.

“Isn’t it a bit early for breakfast?” she asks, hoping she sounds a bit more conversational than she feels. “There’s still a few hours left until morning.”

He shrugs, but doesn’t spare her more than a cursory glance. “Hey, if you think you can get back to sleep after that, be my guest.”

“I…” She sighs, conceding. “Okay. Fair point.”

“Thought it might be.” His expression doesn’t shift at all, but he’s working with a strange sort of vigour, intensely focused in a way that he very rarely gets about anything. “Don’t think any of us is going to rest easy until we’re out of this blasted hole. Might as well call the night a bust and get an early start.”

Tripitaka glances reluctantly at the others. Monkey shrugs his indifference, pointedly avoiding her eye, and Sandy just blinks a few times like she’s trying and failing to understand, then goes back to staring blindly into the fire.

Neither one of them seems particularly inclined to voice any protestations, so Tripitaka shrugs and surrenders hers as well. “It would be nice to get back out into the fresh air,” she admits, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the chill. “And I guess I am pretty hungry…”

Her stomach punctuates that last point with a low, ravenous growl.

Sandy’s lips twitch, giving away her amusement. It is such a beautiful sight, amusement, that Tripitaka almost wants to cry.

“Drowning has that effect,” Sandy remarks, with the casual surety of experience. “And so does lack of sleep.”

Tripitaka has a feeling that’s as close as she’ll ever get to admitting she’s hungry too.

“Uh huh.” Pigsy is still poking thoughtfully at the pot. “Hope you all like mushrooms.”

Monkey grunts, obviously disapproving, but he refrains from complaining out loud. He’s not generally a picky eater, Tripitaka knows, but he has a tendency to let his bad moods bleed out into everything he touches. He’ll be insufferable until he’s worked through his feelings, or at least until he’s cooled down enough for her to try to talk with him again.

If _she’s_ cooled down enough, that is.

“Mushrooms are fine,” she says to Pigsy, shaking off the thought. “I mean, assuming they’re not poisonous this time…”

He splutters nervously. “Yeah, no. Trust me: that’s a mistake you only make once.”

“What a pity,” Sandy laments, as blithe as ever and without so much as a a wisp of irony. “I rather enjoyed the hallucinations.”

Monkey growls a warning. “You didn’t at the time.”

“I didn’t know they were hallucinations at the time,” she says mildly. “If it happened again, I’m sure I’d be better informed.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” he snaps, voice thick with spite. “You don’t even know what’s going on when you’re not hallucinating.”

Sensing where this is heading, Tripitaka feels her heart start to sink. “Monkey…”

“Tripitaka.” Not him this time, but Sandy, still blinking but fractionally more alert now. She climbs stiffly to her feet, setting the egg down and nudging it not-at-all-surreptitiously out of everyone’s reach. “If Monkey has concerns, he should voice them.”

Monkey guffaws, loud and raucous but somehow utterly without humour. “Fine,” he says, “I have _concerns_.”

He steps forward. So does she. They move beautifully, in perfect harmony, no different to the way they move together in combat, like they’re reading each other’s thoughts, catching the rhythm of each other’s heartbeats and adjusting their own to match. In battle, united against a common enemy, it makes them deadly, makes them radiant. But now, like this…

All of a sudden, Tripitaka finds herself a little bit scared of them both.

She doesn’t know if Sandy really knows or understands where Monkey’s anger is coming from; she doesn’t know if she’d be able to fathom it even if he did try to explain. Which he won’t, of course, because he is just as stubborn as she is and far more arrogant besides. Still, for all her blitheness in most corners of her life, Sandy is quick enough here to recognise that it means something, clever enough to grasp that she is a not-insubstantial part of it, and perhaps experienced enough to know that it will only fester if left unchecked. 

And so she steps forward, purposeful whether or not she fully understands what she’s doing, and she does not stop until they’re facing each other, chests close enough to touch, both of them unblinking and unmoved.

“Choose one,” she tells him. “You care, or you don’t care.”

Glaring daggers at her, Monkey’s eyes are as stormy as Tripitaka has ever seen them. Even from a distance, they frighten her.

“I _don’t_ care,” he growls.

She bares her teeth. “Liar.”

And he bares his. “Idiot.”

The insult bounces off her, empty and ineffectual, like she never even heard it at all. Fair enough, Tripitaka supposes; no doubt she’s been called far worse in her life, and by far more dangerous enemies than Monkey in a bad mood.

“If you didn’t care,” she says flatly, “you wouldn’t be so angry.”

The words only stokes his anger even higher, like it’s taking the accusation as a kind of challenge. Even from her relatively safe distance, Tripitaka feels it, a blaze igniting the cold air.

“You could have called that thing whatever you wanted,” he blurts out. His voice is rough, but she can hear the cracks deepening in it, like stone burned and frozen and burned again, worn down and down until it shatters. “Any stupid name in the world. But you just had to pick that one, didn’t you? Had to pick _hers_. It’s like you’re trying to make this as painful as possible for everyone!”

Sandy blinks. “I don’t understand,” she says, with quiet sincerity. “There’s nothing painful in her name. It’s the most beautiful name in the whole world.”

She really means that. Not just the part where she doesn’t understand, but the last part as well, the part where she hears the name _Tripitaka_ and still thinks _beautiful_. She means it wholly and completely, lives and breathes it with every fibre of her being, all those years of abandonment and isolation and loneliness, a life in the dark knowing nothing but violence in being touched or seen. All those years of being wretched and worthless and unwanted, of being discarded and hated, of being abandoned, and all she had to cling to was the idea of a name, and the person it might belong to: a person who might, one day, want her.

To her, the name really is beautiful. It is a world of light, a world of hope and love. Even now, fractured and broken as she is, she cannot see it as anything other than radiant.

But to Monkey…

“It’s going to _die_ , you idiot!” The cracks in his voice split wider, until it shatters too, just like the stone. “It’s going to die, and you’re going to bury it and say _her_ name while you mourn!”

Sandy stares at him for a long, long time. Then she shakes her head, turns around, and walks away from him.

Tripitaka thinks — no, she hopes, even knowing it’s in vain — that will be the end of it, but of course it’s not. 

Sandy only retreats for a moment, just long enough for Monkey to catch his breath and his temper, just long enough for a little of the tension to diffuse and the air to become clear again. She crosses back to the fire, movements fluid and unhurried and retrieves the egg from its resting spot. She runs her hands along its surface for a moment, letting it draw some of the meagre warmth from her skin, then she straightens her spine, takes a deep breath, and carries it back to where Monkey is waiting, tapping his foot and looking annoyed.

“I didn’t name her for her death,” she says, holding it out like she’s presenting evidence. “I named her in the hope that she would _live_.”

Monkey hisses, backing away from it. His eyes are wide, dark but touched by fire, and for a moment he looks almost scared of the thing. He’s not, Tripitaka knows — rather the contrary: he’s afraid of losing his temper and smashing it to pieces — but the look on his face is a terrible thing to behold.

“It won’t.” The words, though intended as a warning, sound more like a threat. “You know it won’t.”

“I believe she will,” Sandy insists, unwavering. She is no less passionate than him, but her passion is much quieter, a rushing river to his searing flame. “She has a strong name, a survivor’s name. I believe that she will be strong, and I believe that she will survive.”

He lets out a roar. “You stupid, stubborn—”

“Me?” She still looks unruffled, but there is something a little sharper now behind her eyes, like a challenge or a threat of her own. Tripitaka doesn’t know how to feel about that; Sandy so rarely stands up to anyone, it’s more than a little jarring. “I’m not the one wasting my grief on one who yet lives. If you choose to mourn her while her spirit is still with us, that’s no fault of mine, and it’s no fault of the name.”

Monkey points a furious, trembling finger at the egg. “I am _not_ mourning that _thing_!”

Sandy locks eyes with him. Hers reflect the fire in his, and for the briefest of moments, their still water seems to eclipse it.

Then, barely above a whisper, she says, “I never said you were.”

And Tripitaka’s breath stalls in her chest as they both turn, in perfect harmony, to look at her.

It’s not news, of course. It’s nothing she didn’t already know. But…

But it shakes her just the same, as if it really were new, as if she was hearing it, learning it for the first time. It is a burst of pain, like a blow to the heart, to see the tears trembling in both their eyes, hers so pale and his so dark, each a fractured mirror of the other. It is a weight almost greater than she can endure to see them both like this, their faith and their love and the terrible, different ways they are both so broken by the thought of losing her.

She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t even know which one of them she should be looking at.

Monkey opens his mouth. His throat clenches, little spasms catching rhythm with the tears he’s trying so desperately to blink back, but when he tries to speak nothing comes out.

Sandy, no less anguished, turns away. She’s shaking, hugging the egg like it’s made of crystal, like it really is Tripitaka, the only version of her she can trust completely, and she doesn’t seem any more able thank Monkey to voice her feelings.

Tripitaka doesn’t even try to voice hers. She doesn’t try to speak at all. What would she say if she did? 

She just stands there, impotent and useless, and watches in devastated silence as they turn and separate, crossing to opposite sides of the fire and not looking at each other. And her heart aches, a piece of it for him and a piece of it for her, and she loves them both, so much.

Pigsy, no doubt sensing that the tension has reached its crescendo, clears his throat and stands.

“So,” he says, tactfully tactless. “Anyone for mushrooms?”

*

The mushrooms go down pretty well, all things considered.

The tension, sadly, does not.

Monkey’s temper is no cooler for having been called out twice now, and he’s no more ready to face his grief now than he was before. He keeps a careful, aggressive distance from the rest of them, storming ahead once they begin moving again, and broadcasts loud and clear his desire to be left alone.

Tripitaka respects that, even as it breaks her heart a little more.

Sandy, as always, is much easier to handle. She’s never had much of a temper to speak of, and she’s not angry or prickly or violent like he is; she’s wounded, certainly, and a little upset, but at least she’s approachable.

She’s carrying the egg again, more protective of it now than ever, and that leaves Tripitaka once more in charge of her scythe. It’s a good excuse to keep pace with her, to make sure the weapon is always within reach — better safe than sorry, she points out, with enemies around every corner — and Sandy accepts the company without argument.

Tripitaka doesn’t push. She walks in steady, amicable silence for a while and lets Sandy direct the flow of conversation, lets her decide for herself when she’s ready to broach the Monkey-shaped elephant in the room.

Which she does. Quietly, shyly, but without prompting. After the maddening, fruitless effort to get Monkey to talk about his feelings at all, it is a breath of fresh air to speak with someone so willing to try.

“I’m sorry,” she says, very softly. “I didn’t mean to upset him.”

“I know.” Tripitaka grips the heavy weapon a little tighter to keep from reaching out and touching her. “I know that you don’t see this the same way he does. I know you… I know that you want to believe that creature will live. I know that’s what you were thinking of when you chose the name. That it would make her stronger somehow, better equipped to survive.”

Sandy nods miserably. “Monkey is convinced that she will die. She hasn’t even hatched yet, and still he has the end of her life carved into stone in his mind.”

It’s a poetic way of putting it, Tripitaka thinks, and the elusive, Sandy-like nature of the words make her smile. “I don’t know that he’d phrase it that way,” she says. “But yes.”

“It’s all he sees,” Sandy sighs. “Death, everywhere. In her, in you, in all of us. And he and I… that word means very different things to us.”

Tripitaka is gradually beginning to understand this. To Monkey, death means grief and loss; it means mourning and the deepest, most heart-rending pain. It means his Master, it means Gwen, it means the choking fear that surges up in his chest when he imagines losing the monk — the _not_ -monk — who saved him from his eternal imprisonment and breathed the life back into him. It means everything he is so afraid of: feeling too deeply and caring too much for people who are doomed to die.

To Sandy, death is just death, nothing more and nothing less. It’s what happens when life comes to an end, when a body is so cold or so hungry or so sick that the spirit can’t endure any longer. Death has been a constant companion her whole life, the face in the shadows, the gnawing in her belly, the ice and water in her lungs. She’s only ever had to face her own death, not someone else’s; she has never known love or family the way Monkey and Tripitaka have, and she has never had anyone to mourn.

That is changing now. For the first time, Tripitaka lets herself wonder how Sandy will react if Monkey is right about the egg after all, if the creature inside really is doomed to die before it ever lives. She has poured so much of herself — her faith, her devotion, even her own body heat — into its survival; would she really endure the loss if it didn’t?

She tries to shake off the thought, but it persists, unpleasant and unwanted, until she has no choice but to give it a voice. “Sandy…”

Sandy doesn’t look at her. She hugs the egg a little bit tighter, like she’s trading in her warmth for the comfort she finds in touching it, and she smiles sadly and says, “You worry too much, Tripitaka.”

That’s certainly true. But—

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

Sandy chuckles. “Don’t I?”

Tripitaka wants very much to argue, but they both know she can’t.

“Fine. Maybe you do.” She lets out a long, drained sigh. “I guess neither one of us has much talent for subtlety.”

“On the contrary,” Sandy says brightly. “I think we can both be remarkably subtle. Just not when attempting to communicate.”

A fair point; it makes Tripitaka smile a little. She reaches out, careful and respectful of Sandy’s boundaries, and rests a hand on her arm when she shows no sign of objection. She’s not shivering quite so hard any more, but she’s still freezing cold and the contact is still a shock, like shards of ice settling into the lines on her palm.

“I don’t suppose you’d let me hold that for a while?”

Sandy does not flinch, but it’s a close thing; Tripitaka feels her muscles twitch, watches her bite down on the instinct. She settles for shaking her head, a whine rippling in her throat, unvoiced.

“No.” Said firmly, but not without compassion. “As I said: you worry too much. The cold won’t kill me, and neither will…” A small shudder goes through her, but she still doesn't pull away. “Well. Whether or not she survives, Tripitaka, I promise that I will.”

Tripitaka wets her lips; her mouth and her throat feel desperately dry. “Uh… that’s good.”

Apparently she’s still being unsubtle, because Sandy chuckles at the lack of conviction and flexes her bicep up against Tripitaka’s fingers, a playful show of strength that she would frankly expect more from Monkey than the usually-shy Sandy.

“If she dies, she dies,” she says, still flexing. “I’ve said this from the very beginning, yes? I have faith that she will survive, of course, but if she cannot, so be it.” She looks down at the egg, losing her footing slightly as her balance shifts, stiff-jointed and too cold to sustain her pace. “I only want her to know that she was loved, that someone believed in her enough to try and keep her spirit alive.”

“I know,” Tripitaka whispers, but Sandy doesn’t seem to hear her at all; she is blinking rapidly now, and her chest is heaving.

“Isn’t that what we all want?” she asks, distant and broken. “To know that someone out there wants us to live?”

Her bicep is rock-solid under Tripitaka’s arm. No longer playful, no longer flexing or demonstrative, it’s like a spasm that can’t unclench. Tripitaka squeezes as hard as she can, but, her human touch is so fragile and delicate she’s sure Sandy won’t feel it.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I think we all want that.”

“I never had it,” Sandy says. “You know this already. For many years, I had nothing but suffering and loneliness. The call of death was the only voice I knew, and I thought… for a long time, I _wished_ …” She stops, eyes closed, breathing rapid and very shallow. “I suppose that’s why I don’t understand grief the way Monkey does, why the idea of it is so strange to me. When you suffer like that, alone for so long, death is… it becomes the only thing you have to look forward to. For a long time, I couldn’t fathom not waiting… not _wanting_ …”

Her breathing grows ragged and raw, but she doesn’t let it slow her down. Too deep, perhaps, in her memories. Tripitaka squeezes her arm again, a little lighter now, trying to bring her back. “Sandy.”

Sandy nods. Her eyes are unfocused when she opens them, but they seem to recognise her; Tripitaka can’t tell if she’s wholly herself or not, but there is at least enough of her to pick up the conversation.

“Monkey thinks it’s such a terrible thing,” she says, swallowing thickly over his name. “To grieve, to mourn. But I think it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Imagine it, Tripitaka: to die knowing that someone cares enough to mourn you. To die knowing that they wanted you to live. To die…”

She breaks off, moving to pick up the pace, as though trying to outrun the final notes of her confession, but Tripitaka holds her in place, fingers like a shackle on her arm.

“Sandy,” she says again, and she thinks that the name is not nearly enough to convey all the things she wants to say, all the feelings that have no words, her regrets and her hopes and her heart.

It is not enough by far, but it is all she has: a name, and the tremors in her voice that says, _yours is just as important as mine_.

Sandy stares down at her hand, the point of contact and the crackling tension under Tripitaka’s fingers. She looks so daunted, afraid of letting the touch linger and just as afraid of letting it go.

“She will know,” she breathes, turning instead to the egg, the safer Tripitaka, the one whose touch swallows only her warmth and not her heart as well. “When she hatches. Whatever form her life may take, she will come into it with my warmth in her blood and my hope in her heart. She will live, whether for an hour or an eternity, knowing that someone wanted her to.”

Tripitaka nods, and pulls them both into her arms, weak and small though they are. The god, frozen and so still, her skin and her clothes like sheets of ice, and the egg in her hands as well, smooth and solid and still somehow alive. She holds them close and tight, and she lets the contact breathe a little bit of life back into all three of them.

“She will,” she whispers. “I know she will.”

*

They’re attacked twice more before the dim light of morning starts to reach them.

The first attempt is over almost before it begins. They’re all edgy and hyper-aware, and none of them really need Monkey’s hushed warning to see the shadows rippling below the surface of the lake nearby. Tripitaka keeps her distance this time, nervous in a way she doesn’t want the others to see; she can still taste the ice-cold water in her mouth, can still feel its claws tearing at her throat, her lungs, her—

She is deeply, deeply grateful that the creatures’ death-screams drown out her own frightened whimpers. For all that the four of them have been through together, she is still deeply ashamed of her human weaknesses.

The next fight, a couple of hours later, gives them considerably more trouble. The edginess wears off as the night bleeds on, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion in all four of them. They’re all drained and disoriented, worn out by the lack of sleep — and, in some cases, by their own roiling emotions — and none of them are at their best when the creatures make their second lunge.

They all have their particular shortcomings, and none more than their strongest fighters: Sandy frozen to the bone and barely able to stand, Monkey reeling and seething, too frustrated and tired to stay focused; her swings are sluggish, his are sloppy, and both of them miss far more often than they hit.

Only Pigsy still has his head in the game by the time the creatures swarm up onto the shore, and he has never been the strongest fighter among them. He holds his own as best he can, like always, but even Tripitaka can see that it’s a struggle when he only has backup half the time.

For her part, Tripitaka keeps her distance again. She knows she’s still a liability in a fight, and now more than ever the others can’t afford to be distracted. Now more than ever, she knows they would be. So she stays back, frantic and helpless, watching and trying to protect the egg.

It’s a hard thing to watch, and her heart is in her mouth more often than her chest as she stands back helplessly as Monkey swings and misses, swings and misses, swings and misses, or as Sandy’s numb, frozen fingers slip on her scythe again and again, as she loses her footing at precisely the wrong moment and hits the ground without even taking a blow.

Her cry is instinctive, more from shock than pain, but Monkey responds automatically. He spins on his heel, drawn to the sound of a companion in distress, and is rewarded for his troubles with a _crack_ across the shoulders. He drops to one knee, mostly to stay out of reach as the creature leaps at the spot where his head would have been, and takes only a moment to recover himself.

It is a moment more than he would normally need.

Tripitaka has seen him shake off far more powerful blows in half the time, and the effort now is noticeable. A breath, two breaths, three breaths, and it is not until he gulps down the fourth that he finds the strength to leap back up and into the fray, disposing of his enemy with a flip and a twist of his staff.

He’s at Sandy’s side in a heartbeat, then, darting and ducking and lunging, holding back her assailants for just as long as she needs to stumble back up onto her feet.

It takes less than the length of a breath, a wordless reconciliation born in the heat of battle, but it turns the tide completely. His strength bolsters hers, her resilience feeds into his, and there they are again, the gods that Tripitaka knows and loves. Neither one of them is at their strongest but when they’re bound together like this, back to back and shoulder to shoulder, they don’t need to be; they’re where they need to be, doing what they need to do, and all the rest just disappears.

There is nothing else between them now. No anger, no resentment, no spite or conflict or disagreement. Just the two of them, and a fight they can only win together.

And they do.

Straining and struggling, Sandy barely standing, Monkey winded and unfocused, but still they support each other. His sweeps and her swings, his strength and her speed, and together—

 _Together_ , they finish it.

Neither of them are standing when it’s over. Sandy is down on her hands and knees, gulping air in ragged, razor-raw gasps, and Monkey is flat on his back, reeling from the handful of lucky hits that found their mark. They’re not in particularly bad shape, either of them — exhaustion and the cumulative effects of one ordeal too many, more than any actual damage — but still Tripitaka’s heart aches to see them so wrung out and drained.

Pigsy, leaning heavily on his rake, flashes his usual lopsided victory grin and says, “That’ll teach ’em, eh?”

Monkey lifts his head off the ground, swears profusely at him, then drops back down with a long, loud groan.

Sandy lets her arms drop out from underneath her, and her head hits the ground with a resounding ‘thunk’.

“This is your fault,” she says to Pigsy. “If you had stayed awake when you were supposed to be standing watch…”

Monkey makes a strangled sound, like a laugh twisted into a cough. “Finally. Something we can agree on.”

Sandy turns her face to the side, pressing her cheek against the wet stone; Tripitaka suspects she is the only one who sees her secret smile, or who hears it bleed over into her voice when she speaks again.

“I think you and I could agree on many things,” she says, “if only our experiences were a little more closely aligned.”

Tripitaka’s heart skips a beat. It’s still too early to hope, she’s sure, but she also knows that Monkey is always at his most approachable when he’s coming down from the high of victory.

Perhaps…

Well.

He doesn’t lash out, at least. It’s a pretty promising start.

Indeed, he seems surprisingly contemplative, taking a moment to consider her point before rolling over onto his belly and waving it away.

“No offence,” he says, addressing the back of Sandy’s head, “but your ‘experiences’ aren’t the kind I’d want to share.”

Sandy laughs, unoffended but suspiciously hoarse.

“Who would?” she murmurs, seemingly to herself, then buries her face in her arms and lies very still.

Silence, then, from both of them. It is not a perfect reconciliation, but it’s close enough for now, brushing across the places that might grow warmer, that might yet become empathy on both sides; it is a lot, and all the more so coming as it does on the heels of teamwork, of shared effort and exertion and adrenaline, of a victory hard won and earned together, through their combined sweat and blood.

It’s as much as she can hope for, reassurance that they can and will work together, that their shared goals hold more weight than their separate ones. To Tripitaka, still tasting her latest brush with death like brackish water on her tongue, it is a great comfort.

To Pigsy as well, it seems. He’s not often one to draw attention to his mistakes, even when he should, but he steps up and does it now. It’s been a long time coming, Tripitaka thinks privately, and there is a different kind of victory in the way he squares his shoulders and lets his features go slack, like he’s finally allowing himself to let out a breath he’s been holding for a very long time.

“I’m sorry,” he says, low and uncharacteristically serious. “For all of it, yeah?”

Monkey snorts, thoroughly unimpressed. “That’s really the best you’ve got? After everything we’ve been through because of you?” He glances briefly at Sandy, then not-so-briefly at Tripitaka, and his expression darkens all over again. “Try again.”

“Monkey,” Tripitaka warns. “What’s done is done.”

“Yeah. Only some of us are still riding the fallout.”

“Mm.” The agreement comes from an unlikely source: Sandy, sitting up and looking oddly forlorn. It is not like her to hold grudges, not like Monkey does, but the cold and exhaustion seem to be preying on her patience as well as her body. “It’s been so long since I last felt my extremities, I’m beginning to wonder if they’re even there any more.”

Monkey opens his mouth, no doubt readying to point the blame at the egg once more, but then he seems to recall their recent misadventure in the lake and swiftly shuts it again.

Changing tack, he says, a little nervously, “Yeah. Uh, about that…”

Sandy blinks. Her confusion is comical. “About my extremities?”

“Yes. _No_!” He growls. “Can you stop being _you_ for five seconds?”

She blinks again, slower. “I can try.”

It’s about the best anyone can hope for. Tripitaka swallows her amusement, and inches back to a surreptitious, out-of-the-way sort of distance; whatever Monkey is trying to say, it’s between them, and not her place to be a part of it. She watches, halfway holding her breath, as Monkey sits up, makes a show of dusting down his tunic, and faces Sandy with earnest sincerity.

“Look,” he says, drawing the syllable out until it’s practically a full sentence. “If those things come after us again — which we both know they will — I need to know you’ll have my back.”

Sandy seems no less confused, but she nods just the same. “You do. Of course.”

“Okay. Right. Good.” He exhales a little shakily. “But I also… I also need to know that you’ll be _able_ to have my back. You know?”

“Um.” It is fairly clear, at least to Tripitaka, that she does not. “Of course?”

Monkey presses the heels of his hands into his temples, already growing frustrated. Tripitaka watches his lips move as he silently counts to ten, once and then a second time, as though trying to drive his temper back under control.

“What I’m saying,” he mutters, when he’s calmer, “is that this whole ‘freezing to death’ thing is slowing you down. And that’s slowing all of us down. And that’s really annoying.” He stares pointedly at her. “So I think we should do something about that. Understand now?”

If she does, she’s doing a remarkable job of pretending not to. “I was hoping I wouldn’t need to dive into the lake again,” she says slowly, “if that’s what you mean.”

For a second, Monkey can only gawk at her, slack-jawed. Then, shaking his head, he turns to Tripitaka instead, arms spread wide like he’s imploring her for help. Tripitaka, who understands his clumsy attempt at peacemaking far better than Sandy seems to, merely shrugs, feeling her heart lodge in her throat, and gestures for him to try again.

Which, to his immeasurable credit, he does.

“Okay.” The word is a ragged sigh, shot through with mounting impatience. “Let’s try this another way. If you keep pouring all your body heat into that stupid egg, you’re going to be a liability. Yes?” She frowns, then musters a hesitant nod; Monkey relaxes just a little, then presses on, “So maybe you shouldn’t do that any more.”

That, she understands perfectly well. 

“No,” she cries, tense and twitching. “ _No_. I won’t let you discard her. I won’t. You can’t, you _can’t_ —”

“Sandy.” Tripitaka winces, stepping in to spare Monkey’s fraying patience. “That’s not what he’s saying.”

Sandy does not relax even one iota. “Then what?”

Monkey grinds his teeth, visibly fighting the urge to count to ten again. “No offence,” he tells her, in a voice that clearly means the opposite, “but I’m tougher than you. Like, a lot tougher. A lot tougher than most gods, actually, so don’t take it personally.”

He flexes his big biceps, then rolls his eyes when she fails to be appropriately awed.

“Yes.” She blinks at him. “This, I do understand. You mention it often enough, I imagine we all do.”

Pigsy snorts. “Oh, we _definitely_ do.”

Increasingly annoyed by their ambivalence, Monkey growls and moves on. “I’m saying,” he grouches, “that some of my super-powered Monkey King body heat would probably incubate that thing better than some idiot god who can’t even keep herself warm right now.”

Sandy makes a strangled sound. “No,” she says again, faint with horror. “No, you don’t get to touch her. You don’t even _want_ to touch her. You don’t… you… _no_.”

Tripitaka frowns at her vehemence — understandable, all things considered, though rather unhelpful — but she stays silent and does not intervene. This is between the two of them; if it’s going to lead where she wants it to, she can’t force the issue in either direction.

Still, she wishes that she could. She wishes she could make this less difficult for both of them, less painful, less—

Less of everything.

But she can’t. So she bites her tongue, swallowed her heart, and watches.

“Stop being stubborn,” Monkey is saying. “Do you want that thing to survive or not?”

“Do _you_?” Sandy is still tense, her whole body quivering with a dozen different emotions; Tripitaka suspects, if she was capable of standing right now, the egg would already be back in her arms, held close to keep it safe from him. “From the moment I salvaged her, you have spoken of nothing but discarding her, abandoning her, of casting her aside like she’s worthless and unwanted. Why should I trust that your intentions have changed now?”

To Tripitaka’s surprise, Monkey doesn’t get angry. In fact, he looks almost contrite.

“Because…” He blows out a breath, and Tripitaka watches as the frustration on his face colours to shame. “Because you gave it _her_ name. Because you called it _Tripitaka_ , and now I can’t even look at the stupid thing without seeing…” His jaw turns white, throat convulsing as he swallows. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does,” Sandy says quietly. “I think—”

“I don’t care what you think!” And there he is again, himself, angry and frustrated and no longer contrite at all; it is somehow comforting and upsetting at the same time. “The point is, I’m not going to let you sit there wailing and sobbing and mourning some stupid dead whatever-it-is and calling her name. And if keeping it alive is the only way to make sure that doesn’t happen…”

He doesn’t finish. He turns away instead, hiding his face and his still-pale jaw, hiding the grief he is still so desperate to convince himself was never there at all.

It is such a rare thing to see him like this, vulnerable but still so determined, willing to yield a little part of himself to help someone else. The excuse is laughable, of course, a parchment-thin veil to cover his deeper feelings, but even through the half-truths and bravado he is so open and earnest that Tripitaka finds herself almost afraid to breathe, fearful of creating the slightest shift in the air, lest it destroy the moment and him along with it.

Sandy, rather less touched, is is watching him through narrowed eyes. She is still suspicious and mistrustful, still understandably wary of surrendering her charge to one who has been so vocal in rejecting it before, but even she recognises the shift in him, the sincerity of his offer, if not his feelings.

“You are more powerful than me,” she muses, working through her thoughts aloud, as she often does. “And you do have more warmth to give. This is all true. But I don’t…” She wets her lips, looking helpless and trapped, then turns to where Tripitaka is guarding the egg. “What if she grows weaker in your care? If her spirit begins to fail? Will you discard her then?”

Monkey grimaces; even someone as generally blithe as Sandy can tell that he doesn’t want to answer that question. “Whatever happened to ‘she’s strong’?” he mutters. “Whatever happened to ‘I believe it’ll survive’?”

“I do believe that,” Sandy says evenly. “But you don’t. And if she were under your protection, your beliefs would hold rather more weight than mine.” She nods, looking rather pleased with herself for having reached this conclusion, then sobers. “So I won’t let you touch her until you promise… until you swear to me that you won’t…”

Her throat clenches around whatever she was about to say next, and it dies unspoken.

Monkey, to Tripitaka’s surprise, actually softens a little. Possibly touched by the words, perhaps simply thrown by the little whimper she lets out as the words die; either way, he loses some of his belligerence and musters a strained, effortful smile.

“I won’t,” he says, in a low voice. He doesn’t look at Tripitaka, but she can see with perfect, painful clarity the tears glimmering in his eyes. “If it was up to me, we would’ve thrown that thing away long before now. But you talked the little monk into letting you keep it. And then you talked her into letting you give it her name. And _then_ you…”

He stops.

Sandy swallows again, only a little less laboured, then inches fractionally closer to him. Tentative and guarded, like a wild, wounded animal, a creature coming face to face with human kindness for the first time in its life.

“And then I did what?”

Monkey glares. Then he moves a little closer too. Closer, and closer, both of them until they could touch if either of them was that way inclined. Close enough that Sandy’s breath catches, close enough that Monkey’s falters too, catching her rhythm. They stare at each other for a moment, wide-eyed, and then—

 _Then_ —

Then he shoves her in the chest, hard enough to knock her back down.

“And then you talked _me_ into believing it might _not_ die,” he roars, tearful and angry and wild. “You _idiot_.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Even Pigsy seems stunned.

Sandy sits up slowly, one hand pressed to her chest, the place over her heart where his palms left their prints. She doesn’t look at him, perhaps uniquely aware of how self-conscious he must feel after admitting to such a thing, but she’s not really looking at anything else, either. Her eyes are unfocused again, and she’s got a dazed, delirious smile on her face. She looks like some wondrous gift has just dropped from the heavens and landed on her head with concussive force.

“Oh,” she manages.

Monkey is flushing furiously, like he’s confessed so much more than a change of faith. “Shut up,” he huffs.

Sandy blinks, still a little dizzy. “Um, I didn’t actually say anyth—”

“Good.” He levels her with a last fiery glare, as though to hammer the point home, then jumps back up to his feet and stomps over to Tripitaka’s side. “Keep it that way.”

And without another word, he picks up the egg and cradles it in his arms like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

*

They move much more quickly after that.

Morning is well and truly upon them by the time they pick up the journey again, wan sunlight cutting through the cracks in the walls and ceiling, its hazy glimmer serving as a guide for their progress.

Monkey sets a brisk, confident pace, seemingly unaffected by the egg’s heat-leeching tendencies. It’s possible that’s because of who he is — the ‘great and powerful’ moniker he loves to throw around so often — but Tripitaka has a feeling it’s just that he has more warmth to spare than Sandy. Not that it really matters; whatever the reason, his new burden doesn’t slow him down at all, and his skin remains as sun-bronzed and healthy-looking as it always does.

He’s still tired, of course, but that’s probably not the egg’s fault. They’re all tired, they’re all frayed, they’re all on the very edge of collapse, and they all know that’s not going to change until they return to the surface, until they find a place to rest without the fear of being attacked in their sleep.

They’ve been walking for about an hour or so when Tripitaka tries her luck and falls into step beside him. Ostensibly, it’s to check in on their progress; her other motives, such as they are, she tries to keep hidden under her robes. Monkey is seldom amenable to people checking up on him — or, indeed, people trying to make peace with him after an argument — so the less he thinks about that, the better.

Blessedly, he’s always been the most oblivious one of them. She touches his arm, letting her hand linger a moment longer than needed, basking in the warmth she finds there, and so far as he’s concerned that’s just business as usual. Sometimes, she thinks, there’s something to be said for his wilful ignorance.

“Do you think we’re any closer to the surface?” she asks him, testing the waters.

He grunts, shrugging with only one shoulder so as not to dislodge the egg nestled in his arms. “Can’t be too far off. The light’s getting stronger.” He squints at the horizon, then grunts again. “Could always punch our way through?”

She thinks on that. “I’d rather not risk bringing the whole place down on our heads, if we can help it.”

“Suit yourself.”

He goes quiet again, then, gaze fixed on the shadow-shrouded horizon. Tripitaka lets him brood for a while, staying focused on keeping her own footing on the slippery stone, listening to the water dripping down from the ceiling, squinting up into the cracks and letting her bleary eyes catch what dim light passes through.

Finally, when she’s exhausted every inch of vaguely interesting scenery, she swallows her nerves and says, “Monkey?”

Apparently that’s all she needs to say. He turns, not slowing his pace, and looks down at her with anguish and guilt burning in his eyes. It’s unexpected, and the sight of it makes her blood run cold and her skin flush warm at the same time; she is not prepared for the way it makes her feel, or for the words that follow:

“I’m sorry, okay?”

Her mouth goes dry. She wets her lips. “You are?”

He grunts his affirmation, looking abashed and upset. He doesn’t quite duck his head or try to hide like Sandy would, but it’s close.

“For what I said before,” he elucidates needlessly. “About… you know…”

Tripitaka’s blood ignites, the chill turning to heat in an instant. “About how I ran away from my problems and then tried to lecture you on dealing with yours? Or about how I’m the reason Sandy needs to work through hers in the first place?”

“I don’t know. Pick one.” He’s scowling now, defensive and annoyed, and Tripitaka finds the familiarity oddly comforting. “I shouldn’t have said it. Any of it. Even if it was true. I shouldn’t have tried to make you feel bad for not handling your stuff well. I mean, it’s not…” His voice hitches a little, a sure sign that he’s starting to feel vulnerable, but to his credit he doesn’t let it slow him down. “It’s not like I’m much of an expert in that, right?”

Tripitaka takes a deep breath, holds it until the memory of drowning forces her to let it out. “I don’t think any of us are,” she admits quietly.

He snorts. “True. But it’s like what you said: at least she’s trying. And you came back, and now you’re helping to try and fix the mess you made of her head, so I guess that means you’re trying too. That’s not nothing, you know? It’s…”

 _It’s more than I’m doing_ , he doesn’t manage to finish.

Tripitaka lets the confession die unvoiced. Knowing him as well as she does, knowing how hard it is for him to muster any kind of apology, the lack of words means more from him than a hundred would from Pigsy or Sandy. She understands, and she is deeply grateful.

“We’re all doing the best we can,” she says, soft but with weight. “All of us, Monkey.”

“Right.” He coughs. “I mean, uh… good. Right. Good?”

She keeps her smile gentle but not too gentle, sweetness with a bit of an edge, the only kind he can swallow. “Good.”

Silence, then, for a few minutes, while he recovers his dignity and she adjusts to the delicate reconciliation, to being back to normal with him; they’re both so passionate and they clash so often, sometimes she thinks it’s a miracle they are able to communicate with each other at all.

He’s the one who breaks the quiet, shifting the weight of the egg from one arm to the other, huffing and grunting under his breath like a sullen, moody child.

“You’d think she would’ve mentioned how heavy this stupid thing is,” he grouches, once he’s got the thing settled again.

Tripitaka ducks her head, tries to pretend she’s not smiling; it feels unspeakably good to be back to normal, to have something — even something like this — to pretend she’s not smiling about.

“Maybe she didn’t think it was that heavy,” she suggests. “I mean, you’re always talking about how much tougher you are than all the other gods combined, but maybe Sandy’s stronger than you think? Maybe—”

“No.” His glare could cut through rock. “She’s just stubborn.”

Tripitaka snickers. “Something else you two have in common?”

She expects him to bristle at that, but he doesn’t. To her surprise, he only shrugs, cocking his free shoulder with a resigned, contemplative sigh.

“Maybe,” he concedes, surprising her all over again. “She stands up for what she believes in, I’ll give her that. This thing is really cold. And _really_ heavy. And she just…” He whistles, grudgingly impressed. “All that time she was hauling it around. And you know, she was already half-frozen and ready to drop, right from the start. But she never said said a word. Not once. Not even a groan or a whimper. Nothing.”

“She doesn’t like to complain,” Tripitaka says sadly. “I think she’s afraid we’ll send her away if she causes too much trouble.”

“Tempting,” Monkey says with a wry chuckle. Then he sees how serious she is, and he sobers as well. “I mean, uh, the abandonment thing?”

Tripitaka swallows, then musters a silent nod.

No doubt sensing her discomfort, Monkey coughs and lets the matter drop. He seems warmer now than he has been in some time, despite the cold weight in his arms, and his stride is sure and steady. He’s still exhausted she can tell, but there is a sense of purpose in him now that wasn’t there an hour ago, as though by reconciling with her he’s reconciled with a part of himself as well.

She lets the silence stretch out again, summoning her courage, then asks, very quietly, “Do you really think it might survive?”

Monkey stiffens, slight but noticeable; he loses his footing for a split-second, then catches it again with a too-casual hop. Tripitaka watches his face twitch, watches the clouds gather and then settle behind his eyes, watches his body reassert its equilibrium, like he’s training himself to look indifferent for her sake.

“Dunno,” he says at last, just a little too careless. “But I do know that she’s got nothing left. So if it is going to survive, I’m its best shot.”

He’s saying far more than she suspects he realises. Tripitaka is used to her gods’ little tics and mannerisms by now, to the things they say in the things they don’t say, and Monkey’s voice is never louder or clearer than in the pauses between his words. And in this case…

She sighs.

“You still think it’s going to die.”

His shoulders go rock-tight, and the muscles in his arms bunch and clench, like the egg has suddenly become three times as heavy, or maybe like he’s taken another, heavier weight on top of it.

“I think,” he says, softly pained, “that maybe I don’t want to bury two dead things after all.”

Tripitaka sucks in her breath, chest aching as she tries to take that in, to grasp his meaning.

He’s already quickening his pace by the time the words are out, and she has to break into a jog just to keep up with him. It’s like he’s trying to get away from her before the realisation can hit, avoiding the inevitable distress the words will cause them both.

It won’t work, of course; distressed or not, Tripitaka can be just as stubborn as him when she wants to be, as stubborn as Sandy or Pigsy or any one of them, and she will not let him run away from this.

“What are you saying?” she asks, breathless from more than just the effort of keeping up.

He’s breathing heavily now too, but to his credit he doesn’t balk from the question.

“We fought,” he says in a ragged voice. “Side by side, against those things. When we… hells, you were there, you saw it. I don’t need to…” He blinks a handful of times, as though fighting back a strong wave of emotion, then presses on with only a fraction more control. “Like I said: she’s got nothing left. And I mean _nothing_. She’s frozen, she’s exhausted. When we fought she was… you saw it. She could barely even stand. And she’ll say a thousand times that she was ‘holding her own’ or whatever, but it’s not true. She’s poured everything she has into this wretched thing. And what little she might’ve had left, she threw into that stupid lake to save your neck.”

Tripitaka stumbles, a wash of guilt almost driving her down onto her knees. “That’s not…”

“Yeah, it is.” He doesn’t look at her, but the tightening of his jaw says a part of him wishes he could take that part back. “But it doesn’t matter. I would’ve done the same thing. You know that, right?”

“I…” She shakes her head, dazed and reeling, struggling to regain her footing. “Monkey.”

He shrugs off the point, slowing his pace just a little to give her time to recover. “Doesn’t matter,” he says again, more sharply now. “What matters is that she never would’ve handed that thing over if she didn’t think I believed her. She’d join it in the grave before she’d ever let me touch it, and then we’d have to bury them both. And I’d sooner…”

His voice cracks, and he lets the words fade with it, shame leaving the end of the sentence unvoiced.

It’s enough, though; Tripitaka hears, again, the words between the words, and her heart swells with quiet pride and a soft, shimmering sort of warmth.

“You’d sooner resign yourself to mourning that thing,” she breathes, awed, “than have to mourn _her_.”

Monkey’s nod is tight and tragic, a spasm that resonates in Tripitaka’s chest. “Yeah,” he says. “Even if it does have your stupid name.”

He tries to pick up the pace again, no doubt to outrun his feelings and the conversation, but of course Tripitaka won’t let him. Sometimes, she thinks, fond and sad at the same time, her gods are so much alike it’s almost amusing.

“Monkey,” she says, and the name alone is enough to stop him in his tracks.

He doesn’t lose his footing this time, but he falters just the same, looking down at her with dark, damp eyes, angry and helpless and frustrated; he wishes he could blame her, she knows, or even Sandy, but he can’t and that hurts him almost more than all the rest combined.

“It’s stupid,” he says in a rasping, tearful voice. “This whole thing is stupid. But she’s not going to let it go.”

Knowing Sandy as well as she does, it’s no effort at all for Tripitaka to sigh her agreement. “No, she’s not.”

“Right.” He takes a deep, shuddery breath; it rattles in his throat, his chest. “And she… she did save you. In that stupid lake. She threw the last little bit of herself in there and she got you out and she saved you when I couldn’t. So I… I owe her for that.”

Tripitaka touches his hand, caressing the backs of his knuckles, the points of tension where he grips the egg so carefully. “You care about her too.”

“No.” It would be more convincing, she muses, if his voice didn’t crack mid-syllable. “I _don’t_. She’s stupid and stubborn and she deserves what’s coming to her. She doesn’t know anything, and she doesn’t listen to anyone, and even if she did she wouldn’t understand anyway, and she…”

He stops. Tripitaka runs her thumb over the ridges of his knuckles, encouraging and gentle and trying so hard not to smile. 

“Monkey.”

“She’s _stupid_ ,” he says again. His voice is no less ragged; it’s trembling even harder than his hand, the skin pulled tight under Tripitaka’s palm. “But she loves you. And she’d do anything for you, no matter what you did to her. And I…” He coughs, flushing hot, but this time he doesn’t try to run, not from his words or his feelings or anything else. “I guess we have that in common.”

Tripitaka’s heart seizes a little. It’s no more news coming from him than from Sandy, but it sets her nerves on fire just the same.

She turns, glances behind, searching. Behind Pigsy, lumbering along with their things strapped to his back, Sandy is quietly bringing up the rear. Her gait is much less fluid than usual, her spine and her shoulders stiff with exhaustion and cold. Monkey is right, Tripitaka can see: she really has given everything she has. Still, for all her weakness, she does not falter. Stubborn to the last, her stride remains sure, her scythe strong and solid in her hands, and her jaw is clenched tight with determination.

She is as much a vision on land, Tripitaka thinks, as she is in water.

She tucks that thought away, stores it in the same private place as Monkey’s rare smiles, then turns back to find the same strong shoulders and the same stubborn jaw, the same vast and endless beauty standing beside her, in him.

“I think,” she says, lifting herself up to press a kiss to his cheek, “you have more in common than just that.”

Monkey frowns, touching the spot where her lips leave their mark, then lifts his gaze to follow hers. He’ll never admit it, she knows, but his eyes grow softer when they fall on Sandy, just like her own heart does when she looks at either one of them. There is a warmth inside of him, carefully hidden but burning bright and beautiful even so, and it spreads and engulfs so much more than he will ever admit.

Little wonder, she thinks, that he can pour so much warmth into the egg without losing any of his own. He has so much to give.

He’s still looking at Sandy when he starts moving again, expression dazed and sort of awed, like the sight of her has thrown open a window inside his chest, inviting a flood of new emotions he’ll probably never admit to.

“Maybe we do,” he muses softly. Then, because even now he can’t seem to help himself, “But that doesn’t mean I _care_.”

Tripitaka covers her face with her scarf, and definitely doesn’t grin.

*


	5. Chapter 5

*

Another hour, and they finally break through to the surface.

It’s a shock to the system, returning to the world above from the one below, and much more than Tripitaka was expecting. They’ve been underground for so long now, with no light but what pierced through the cracked rock walls, that she is momentarily blinded by the sudden exposure, not just to the light but to heat and colour as well; she is knocked backwards by the blast of fresh air, the scent of grass and pollen, the drowsy hum of bees and birds. It takes her a few moments to reorient herself, for her senses and her organs to adjust to the sudden change, for her feet to catch the shift in the new ground, slippery stone giving way at long last to dry earth.

It is a dazzling, miraculous thing, to see the world bloom again with all these things she once took for granted.

The sky is blue-grey, hazy but no less beautiful for the mottled clouds skimming its endless surface, and the grass beneath their feet is yellow and long and very dry. Here is a place, or so it seems, that hasn’t seen rain in a very long time; after so long in the dark and damp, following subterranean lakes and rivers, hiding from the creatures that dwell in the fathomless depths, the sudden absence of water is almost a relief.

Pigsy is the first to recover. He shakes himself, then blinks up at the sky with a dazed, goofy look on his face.

“Not bad,” he says, low with relief and joy. “You forget how bloody big it is, eh?”

Monkey, meanwhile, is all business. He shakes off the disorientation nearly as quickly as Pigsy does, then strides a short distance from the cave mouth, squinting at the horizon and trying to measure out how far they’ve actually travelled.

“Should be at least mostly through the demons’ territory by now,” he muses out loud. “A few stragglers, maybe. Hunters, scouting parties, that sort of thing.” He flexes the arm that isn’t holding the egg, as cocky and blithely arrogant as ever. “Nothing to give us any trouble, I’d bet.”

Tripitaka hums her approval. “Worth spending a few days underground, then,” she says, then glances uneasily back towards the dark, gloomy cave. “Maybe we should seal it up or something? Make sure those monsters don’t try to follow us out here?”

Monkey rolls his shoulders, but doesn’t bother to look back. Pigsy gives it some more thought; he grunts, then steps away to study the breaks and chips in the rock, head cocked to one side like he’s pondering the suggestion and trying to figure out the best way to go about it.

“No need,” Sandy says, stopping him before he can make any ill-advised attempts with his rake or his fists. “They wouldn’t venture so far from the water. Much too dry out here.” She blinks a few times, still adjusting to daylight and the sudden lack of moisture in the air. “Too light, as well, I expect. Not a pleasant environment for aquatic things.”

Going by the queasy, headachey look on her face and the shallow heaving of her chest, Tripitaka has a sneaking suspicion she’s not just talking about their pursuers. She keeps that to herself, though, and turns away so Sandy can catch her breath in relative privacy.

They stay there for a few minutes, all four of them just reorienting themselves and taking in their new, open surroundings, adjusting once more to fresh air and natural light, to being back in the parts of the world where normal warm-blooded creatures live and thrive.

“First thing’s first,” Monkey says, when he’s decided they’ve wasted enough time. He lays the egg down at his feet, unexpectedly gently, and lifts an arm to shield his eyes. “We look for shelter. Somewhere secluded, somewhere we can make camp, take stock in peace and quiet, settle for a bit…”

He stops there, content to pretend he’s tougher than he is, but Tripitaka won’t allow the bravado this time. 

“…and maybe get some sleep?” she presses.

He makes a show of rolling his eyes, but they all know better than to believe there’s any bite behind it this time. There’s no hiding the relief that flashes in his eyes, grateful for the opportunity to blame someone else for the need to rest, all the while pretending he’s not as exhausted as everyone else.

“I guess,” he says with an unconvincing shrug. “If our fragile human needs some.”

“Our fragile human definitely does,” Tripitaka affirms with a dry chuckle. Out of the corner of her eye, she spies Sandy sneaking towards Monkey’s side, to the egg at his feet. “And I don’t think I’m the only one.”

Monkey huffs. “Sure. I mean, Pigsy always needs sleep. But—” He breaks off, lashing out smoothly with his staff to knock Sandy off-balance before she can creep any closer. “Do you seriously think I can’t see you there?”

Sandy pouts, catching her equilibrium with only a little difficulty. “It’s better out here,” she points out. “And the danger is past. We’re safe, we’re dry, we’re warm. Thus, I can take her back now.”

“You _could_ …” As antagonistic as ever, Monkey snatches the egg back up before she can lunge for it again. “Only _he’s_ decided he likes me better.”

Sandy’s face crumples. “She does?”

“Yep.” Never one to resist an opportunity to show off, he flashes one of his most charmless smirks, and preens some more. “He told me so. Better quality body heat, you know. Also, I’m more fun. Sorry!”

He does not, in fact, sound sorry at all.

Tripitaka wishes she had Pigsy’s talent for keeping his expression neutral. He’s watching the disaster unravel like he’s watching a game of cards, vaguely bemused but otherwise indifferent; she, meanwhile, wants very badly to shoot Monkey a stern glare and tell him to behave, only she can’t keep the corners of her lips from twitching and giving away her amusement.

“Monkey.” The word is strangled. “Stop tormenting her.”

He does, albeit with obvious reluctance, but he doesn’t stop smirking and he doesn’t put the egg down. 

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Shelter. This way. Come on, then.”

And off he goes, sauntering off into the tall grass while Sandy follows forlornly at his heels.

*

They find shelter in a nearby copse of trees.

Shelter from the wind, at least, and no doubt from the prying eyes of prowling demons. It’s probably not perfect, but at this point Tripitaka finds she doesn’t care; it’s the safest spot they’ve seen in days, and the relief feels even bigger than usual after the claustrophobic underground caverns, the cold wet air and the fear of attacks at every turn, every ripple of the water a fresh warning, a new threat.

The air up here is warm and strong and fresh, the sun inching towards its midday high, bathing the world in light. Even through the canopy of trees, the sunlight is inescapable; it is a blessing beyond words, she thinks, to look up or around, and be able to see everything with perfect clarity.

Pigsy gives the place a thoughtful once-over as he sets down their things. He’s generally the most cautious about where they make camp, and always the first to run a critical eye over every proposed site. Tripitaka has no idea where he got his apparent expertise on this subject, and her questions are usually met with elusive smiles or casual half-answers about how he’s ‘picked up a few things over the years’.

“Best not chance a fire out here,” he says, of their present choice. “Dry grass, hot sun, enclosed space, bad combo.”

Monkey sets down the egg with a shrug, then throws himself down into the grass beside it. He sprawls lazily on his back, eyes already halfway closed as the drowsiness takes hold, and Tripitaka basks in the sight of him like that, at peace and rest for the first time in far too long.

“We don’t need a fire,” he says to Pigsy, his voice a low, content hum. “We’re only here so Tripitaka can take a nap, anyway.”

Tripitaka snorts her amusement. It would be considerably more believable, his insistence on blaming her, if his eyes hadn’t finished closing almost before his mouth had finished talking.

“Right,” she deadpans, enjoying this far more than she should. “ _I’m_ the one who needs a nap.”

The corners of his lips twitch in amusement, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “Don’t you?”

She doesn’t dignify that with a reply.

Instead, pointedly ignoring him, she turns to look at Sandy. She’s typically quiet, hovering near the edge of the copse and watching them as they settle, with extra attention — as usual — on the egg resting by Monkey’s side.

“Will you be okay without a fire?” Tripitaka asks her. “You still look a little…”

“Cold?” She shakes her head, but doesn’t manage a smile. “It’s much better now. I can almost feel my toes again.”

“Really?” Tripitaka tries not to look as hopeful as she feels. “That’s great.”

“I suppose it is.” There’s an odd sort of melancholy to her, though, like she’s almost disappointed by the fact, the irrefutable proof that her precious egg really was making it all worse. She bites her lip for a moment or two, then admits, very softly, “Still, my arms miss holding her.”

Monkey grunts his annoyance. “You can take the stupid thing back _after_ you’ve taken a nap.” His expression doesn’t change, but his voice does, becoming almost fond when he adds, under his breath, “You stubborn idiot.”

Fond or not, it’s about the last thing Sandy wants to hear, and she’s not shy about letting it show. She prowls moodily over to the egg and sits herself down next to it, just a couple of hands’ spaces away from where Monkey is lounging.

“I don’t want her to hatch without me,” she says, in a firm, decisive voice.

Monkey cracks one eye open with an irritable, impatient growl, then sits up on his elbows so he can glower at her directly. “Are you kidding?”

“No.” She folds her arms across her chest. “She may prefer your warmth, but you don’t care for her like I do. You don’t _understand_.”

Monkey, being too tired to argue and too disinterested to really try, just waves a careless hand and flops back down. “Fine, whatever. Just don’t touch the stupid thing until you’ve gotten some sleep.”

And that, as far as he’s concerned, is that.

Sandy, for once, doesn’t try to argue. She’s content enough just to be close to the thing, on hand if it does happen to start hatching, and she doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to freeze any more, for all that her arms might feel lost and empty. A compromise, Tripitaka notes, and feels deeply proud of them both.

She watches as they settle down to sleep, separate but close, but for all her own exhaustion she doesn’t immediately join them. She feels edgy, uneasy, and her nerves haven’t yet loosened from all those hours of anticipation and fear, of waiting for the next attack, the next threat, the next near-death experience. It feels strange to be safe, and her body still needs convincing that it actually is.

It must be nice, she thinks wryly, to be a god. Confident and unafraid, able to lie down and go to sleep wherever she wants, secure in knowing she could easily defend herself against any threat, demon or human or otherwise. Not needing three powerful guardians to protect her or keep her safe, risking their lives to save hers…

She drives the thought back down, swallowing hard.

Behind her, no doubt sensing her discomfort, Pigsy clears his throat. “Go ahead and join them. I’ll keep an eye out for trouble.”

Tripitaka still hesitates, not nearly as reassured by the offer as she might once have been.

“Thanks,” she says carefully. “But are you sure you’re…”

“Not going to fall asleep on the job this time?” His expression clouds over, but only for a moment, and then he forces himself to brighten for her sake. “Yeah. Learned that lesson well enough, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’d better have,” Monkey snaps, without humour. He doesn’t sit up this time, but his lean body doesn’t seem nearly so relaxed any more. “We can’t afford to clean up after you a second time.”

He doesn’t say any more, but he doesn’t need to; the sharpness in his voice makes his feelings on the subject quite clear. Tripitaka suspects he wouldn’t have allowed Pigsy to take watch at all if he thought there was any chance of anyone finding them out here; the only reason he’s still at rest is because he knows — as they all do — that they’re perfectly safe.

Pigsy seems to understand that. He makes a valiant effort to keep the hurt from showing on his face, but Tripitaka knows him nearly as well as she knows Monkey and Sandy, and she can tell that he’s feeling stung.

She wonders if that’s why he’s been so leery of actually apologising for his mistakes. Pigsy is not afraid of much, but he’s acutely aware of how precarious his place in the group is. Monkey in particular has always been vocal about how little he trusts him, no doubt still soured by their first meeting; he’s never been the type to forget a slight, and Tripitaka suspects a part of him is still waiting for Pigsy to turn around and throw him and Sandy into another prison cell.

Monkey does not forgive easily. This, they all know. And no-one is more aware than Pigsy of how much he still has to make up for, now and always. Every mistake is a step backwards, a cut against him, and Monkey has always been happy to remind him of that fact. Small wonder, then, that he’s wary of owning up to them.

Tripitaka pats his broad back, smiling with what she hopes is reassurance. “Don’t listen to Monkey,” she says, as gently as she can while trying to swallow her own doubts. “You know how cranky he gets when he’s sleepy.”

Pigsy acknowledges this with a nod, but the light doesn’t return to his face. On him, the dimness is especially noticeable. He makes a noble effort, as he does with every task, but Tripitaka can see the lines still carving out their tracks of guilt, making him look even older than he is. He’s shuffling his feet, uncharacteristically shy and subdued, and there is an awkwardness in the way he clears his throat that is very much unlike him.

“Right. Yeah.” He kicks at the grass, coughing again. “Anyway, uh, rest up. Like I said, I’ll…”

That’s all he manages to say. Afraid, perhaps, of ensuring another failure if he dares to voice his intentions aloud, or perhaps just afraid of inviting more criticism from Monkey. Tripitaka nudges his shoulder, the kind of playful encouragement she knows he responds best to.

 _You’ll be fine,_ she doesn’t say, knowing that he won’t believe it from her, then she smiles, nods, and slips away to join the others.

It doesn’t matter, anyway, she reminds herself. After so long underground, the endless caverns and the depthless lakes, evading attack and navigating in the dark, they all know this is safer than they’ve been in days. Even if he does fall asleep again at his post, there is no danger; whatever mistakes he may make, they’ll do no harm out here.

And if Tripitaka takes just a fraction more comfort from knowing this than she might have done before all this began? Well, that’s nothing he needs to know about.

She settles herself down in the space between Monkey and Sandy, in part to stay close to them both and in part to keep them apart from each other. Experience has taught her never to underestimate her companions in anything, and least of all their shared tendency to childishness; it certainly wouldn’t be the first time she woke in the middle of the night to find Monkey squabbling with Pigsy over nothing, or ‘playfully’ elbowing Sandy in the ribs just to try and get a rise out of her.

For all his protestations, Tripitaka suspects he’s far too tired for that sort of behaviour just now, but after all the tensions and troubles of the last couple of days she’ll rest easier knowing that he’d have to go through her if he wanted to try anything silly.

He’s already starting to doze by the time she lies down beside him, his body loose and languid in the grass and his expression blissfully blank. He’s not completely asleep, not yet, he’s but well on his way there, and the sight of him makes her smile all over again, warmed by his presence, by the way he grows so calm and still when he is at peace. He’s always locked up so tight when he’s awake, always alert and aware of everything around him, every sound and sensation, every shift in the air; to see him like this, relaxed and comfortable and so unburdened of the weight he’s taken upon himself, is a rare and beautiful blessing.

Sandy, on her other side, is not nearly so much at peace. Curled up on her side, knees drawn up to her chest, she keeps nodding off and then immediately twitching herself awake, fighting sleep like a stubborn child, like she’s afraid someone will swoop in and steal the egg if she drops her guard.

Tripitaka, being well accustomed by now to soothing this kind of restlessness in her, moves in just close enough to lay a hand on her shoulder. “Go to sleep, Sandy,” she says, quiet enough to not disturb Monkey. “No-one’s going to take her.”

Sandy flinches, then rolls over to glare at her. Her eyes are milky with exhaustion, though, and it mutes the effect somewhat. “I know that,” she mumbles.

Tripitaka examines the lines on her face, deep and weary, tiredness and tension, the effect of too much cold and a few too many lungfuls of water; she’s looking down, now, at Tripitaka’s fingertips where they still rest on her shoulder, and the hazy dullness gives way to a burst of clarity, pain and fear flickering for a moment behind the clouds. Tripitaka thinks she understands — it’s hard to read Sandy even on a good day, but in this she is consistent — and she gives her shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“No-one’s going to take me, either.”

“I…” She laughs, breathy and a little tremulous. “Of course not. Pigsy’s standing watch.”

“That’s right.” Tripitaka smiles, then carefully lets go of her shoulder. “Okay?”

“I think so.” She rolls back over, swallowing loudly a few times, as though to smother the feeling. “Yes.”

Tripitaka isn’t sure she really believes her, but Sandy’s body does seem to relax a little as she settles back down, growing stiller and more steady than it was before, like she’s comforted by the closeness in spite of herself. Like it’s enough, with Tripitaka as with the egg, simply to have her nearby, close enough to reach out and touch if she grows frightened, close enough to make sure, as often as she needs, that she is still there, still safe, and still whole.

On Tripitaka’s other side, Monkey makes an indignant, dramatic-sounding noise, then covers his head with his arms as though to drown out their fading conversation.

“Will you both shut up and go to sleep?” he grouches.

But he’s inching towards her too, neither casual nor subtle, and he ends the sentence almost a full hand’s space closer than he began it.

*

In hindsight, she supposes she shouldn’t be surprised when she wakes, a few hours later, tangled up in a knot of gods and limbs.

She opens her eyes, chasing off the ghost of a spectral half-dream, to find herself sandwiched between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Monkey has pressed himself against her back, burying his face in the space between between her shoulder-blades with one arm slung over her waist to hold her still; Sandy, meanwhile, is curled up in her arms, shivering once again, with the egg cradled between their bodies. Whether she was conscious or not when she took the thing, Tripitaka has no idea, but the contact is dragging her temperature down as well and so she eases it out of their shared grasp and nudges it a short distance away.

Sandy whimpers a semiconscious protest, then pushes herself further into Tripitaka’s arms and promptly goes back to sleep.

Monkey doesn’t stir at all. He’s snoring lightly, his warm breath tickling the back of Tripitaka’s neck. The steady rhythm of it, coupled with his strong body, makes a strange contrast to the tremors and the chills from Sandy; her front is cold, her back warm, and every part of her is completely engulfed.

They’re both holding her very tightly, both desperate to keep the contact, to keep her close, and Tripitaka is struck by the differences in the way they press themselves against her: Monkey, always the protector even in sleep, holds her like she’s something fragile and delicate, like he’s trying to shield her body with his own, while Sandy is burrowed into her chest like Tripitaka is the only source of warmth and love in the whole world, like she’d crawl right into the space between her ribs if she could, and stay there forever.

It says a lot, she thinks, awed and saddened all at once, about the different ways they see her, and themselves.

She lies there for a short while, trying to keep herself still and silent for their sakes. They were all exhausted when they found this place, but Monkey and Sandy were by far the most in need, and she doesn’t want to risk waking either one of them now that they’re finally getting the sleep they so desperately need. It’s only when she feels her limbs start to lose sensation that she lets necessity force her up and out of their arms.

She winces, acutely aware of her own clumsiness, and her precarious position. It takes so little to wake her gods, even when she’s not tangled up in a knot of their limbs, and the slightest wrong move would have them both on their feet and battle-ready in the blink of an eye. She has to move slowly, carefully, and she does, extricating herself with still breath and a hammering heart.

It’s not her most successful escape attempt, but at least she gets out in one piece, and without waking them; Monkey grunts and grumbles in his sleep, and Sandy whimpers for a moment before settling, but their eyes stay closed and their shared breathing holds its rhythm. A testament to their exhaustion far more than her dexterity, she’s sure, but she’ll take the victory nonetheless.

She spies Pigsy nearby, watching over them as promised. He’s lounging against one of the trees, toying idly with his rake, and his dark eyes seem to glitter in the sunlight, rich and warm and fond.

“Sleep well?” he asks in a low voice, waving her over.

“I guess.” She sits herself down beside him, gesturing vaguely at her still-slumbering companions. “They’re awfully clingy. Even when they’re asleep.”

He shrugs, masking a smile. “Can you blame them?”

Probably not, she concedes, all things considered. Still, though, the memory of it lingers like the taste of a good meal, Monkey’s arm draped over her hip, Sandy’s face buried in her collarbones, the two of them wrapped around her on both sides, holding her close like she’s the most precious thing in the world; sometimes, she wonders if she’s the only one who realises that she’s not.

She closes her eyes, tries to push back the wash of self-consciousness, of inferiority, of being so much less than they imagine they see when they look at her.

“You should get some rest,” she says to Pigsy, hating herself for the way those feelings catch in her voice, escaping despite her best efforts to keep them held down. “I’m awake now. I can stand watch until the others wake, if you like.”

He grunts his appreciation, but seems disinclined to move. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”

His shoulders sort of slump a little as he speaks, like he’s trying to convince himself rather more than her. Peering up into his face, always so expressive even when he’s trying to keep things hidden, Tripitaka sees a reflection of her own conflicted feelings; this close, the sunlit glimmer does little to hide the self-doubt and shame, the faint flicker of fear, the dozen different shades of discomfort all rippling below the surface. The same emotions, his and hers, but they come from very different places; seeing it in him somehow makes her feel better and worse at the same time.

“Are you?” she presses, gentle but not too much. She never has to be quite so careful with him as she does with the others. “Good, I mean?”

“Sure.” Still, his shrug seems strangely heavy for a god who can carry a small village’s worth of supplies for days without end. “Shouldn’t I be?”

Tripitaka takes a moment to think on that before answering. It’s hard to tell, sometimes, whether he’s offering himself up for a conversation or warning her in his usual subtle way to back off. He is so much more open than the others — Monkey, whose fits of temper often make him wholly unapproachable, and Sandy, who can disappear inside her head or her cloak for days at a time — but so much more elusive as well. He will spread his arms wide and smile like he has nothing to hide, while at the same time dodging and evading even the simplest of questions.

He seems approachable enough at the moment, though, and with nothing else to do while the others are still asleep, Tripitaka shrugs, smiles, and speaks with honesty.

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t flinch like Sandy would, and he doesn’t take it as accusation like Monkey; the lack of reaction bolsters her to continue, kind but earnest, “You’ve been pretty quiet lately.”

“Suppose I have, at that.” His smile is kind, but there’s a ghost of sadness in it too, like the kind still shining behind his eyes. “No sense in kicking up a fuss, though, right? Figured you’d have your hands full enough dealing with those two.”

Tripitaka rubs the back of her neck, feeling self-conscious again. “I think they’re getting better,” she muses, no doubt a little too optimistically. “I mean, slowly, but…”

“Not that slowly,” he remarks, and in a flash his eyes are twinkling again, as mischievous and alive as they ever were. Tripitaka frowns her confusion, so he waves a hand at their still-sleeping companions and says, with more warmth than she’s ever heard from him, “See for yourself.”

She turns, following his gaze, and—

Blinks.

Without her body serving as a barrier between them, Monkey and Sandy have sought out the contact in each other instead, curled up and tangled together as if she never left.

It is a sight to behold.

There’s little difference to the way they hold each other; it is so much like the way they held her that her breath stalls in her chest. Monkey has slung his arm over Sandy’s slender shoulders, holding her just as protectively and possessively as he held Tripitaka, and Sandy has burrowed just as deeply into his chest as she did into the warmth of her monk’s robes. She’s stopped shivering now, no doubt soaking up his boundless warmth, and Monkey’s breath has grown rhythmic and even again, probably finding comfort in her willing closeness. Together, they seem beatific, and almost wholly at peace.

“I’m sure they both think it’s you,” Pigsy quips, cutting casually through the precious moment. “But hey, whatever gets them to stop scrapping like bloody housecats, right?”

Tripitaka keeps her thoughts on that to herself. Watching them lie there together, sleeping soundly in each other’s arms, her chest grows sort of tight and loose at the same time; she feels awed and enthralled and a little bit of something else as well, something strange and elusive that she’s fairly sure she’s never felt before.

A part of her wants to go back, she realises, to throw herself down between them again and once more become a part of their delicate peacefulness, to let herself be wrapped up in their arms, tangled in their bodies and hearts. But then, at the same time, another part of her feels suffocated and smothered and scared, strangled just by the thought of letting herself be loved like that.

“They both feel a lot,” she says, overwhelmed. “Often about… the same things.”

Pigsy snorts. “The same _thing_ , you mean.”

He says it calmly, amused but with no judgement. It could mean one of a few things, and Tripitaka suspects he’s phrased himself that way quite deliberately, to give her deniability if she wants it.

She’s not sure she does. She’s also not sure she doesn’t.

She’s not sure of a lot of things. But she feels a lot safer, being unsure here, with him, than she would with either of them, who pour so much of themselves onto her fragile human shoulders.

She takes a deep, shaky breath, and takes the deniability.

“I think I’ll be glad,” she says, redirecting her gaze — and their shared attention — to the egg, “when that thing hatches.”

Pigsy grimaces. “Or, you know, dies.”

“Or that.” She closes her eyes, struck by a vision of Monkey and Sandy, both of them drowning in their grief, he in his anger and she in her silence, holding and comforting each other. “Or does whatever it’s fated to do.”

Pigsy’s expression darkens ever so slightly, a shift so subtle that Tripitaka doubts either of the others would have noticed it at all.

“You reckon we would’ve been better off?” he asks, in the low, tight-throated hum of someone who isn’t really sure if he wants to know the answer. “If we’d never… that is, if she hadn’t gone down there and found the thing in the first place?”

Tripitaka knows what he really means. _If I hadn’t screwed up, if I hadn’t fallen asleep, if I hadn’t brought this whole blasted mess down on us_. She knows what he’s asking; she just doesn’t know how to answer.

“Who can say?” It’s the simplest option, and perhaps the kindest for all of them. “The Scholar once told me that things happen for a reason. That there is a greater purpose to all things, even when you can’t see it.” She swallows hard, feeling her own grief pressing down inside of her. “Or when you don’t want to.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t look especially reassured, but she knows better than to expect him to. That’s another lesson the Scholar taught her well: that the truth is rarely comforting. “Nice words. Poetic, at least.”

Tripitaka understands his reticence; it’s been a challenge for her as well, to find comfort in those words and their truth, and all the more in recent months, with so many reasons to think of them. The Scholar’s death, and Gwen’s, the gods at the Jade Mountain, slaughtered and tortured for no reason at all, all the destruction and misery that has circled her ever since she set out on the quest…

There is so much, she thinks sadly. So much.

She has kept those words close to her heart, believed in them with every ounce of strength she has: that has to be a meaning and a purpose, somewhere, to all that pain. She has convinced herself that it is true, but even now she cannot accept — cannot bring herself to believe — that she might be a part of it as well. That her continued existence, when so many others have suffered and died, was somehow fated to be.

“I don’t know if it’s true.” It feels like a confession, like she’s kneeling before one of the monks and giving voice to a moment of terrible doubt. “But I like to believe that it is.”

Pigsy grunts, looking thoughtful. “I’m not usually one for the whole ‘cock-eyed optimism’ thing,” he admits. “Might be nice to try it for a change, eh?” He cocks his head towards the others again, not with fondness this time but with something a little more nervous, the ever-present fear of judgement. “Reckon they’d be willing to try it on for size, too?”

Tripitaka thinks about that.

“Sandy, definitely.” Indeed, she’s already there, surviving as she has for so long on faith and hope and little else; Tripitaka has no doubt that optimism is a big part of the reason she’s still alive in the first place. “As for Monkey…”

That one is more thorny, and she doesn’t have the heart to answer it with honesty.

Apparently she doesn’t need to. Pigsy’s sigh tells her that he already knows. “Suppose he’s still got a ways to go, eh? Bloody misery-guts pessimist that he is.”

Tripitaka shrugs her affirmation. No sense in lying, she supposes, when it’s obvious to them both.

“He doesn’t deal with his problems very well,” she says, with as much kindness as she can. “And this… it’s forced him to confront some things he really didn’t want to. He’s not very good at that, even when he’s doing it by choice.”

Pigsy’s eyes seem to darken for a moment, a little sad and a little knowing. “He’s not the only one.”

Easy to assume he’s talking about Sandy, there. Drowning in her past, abandoned and rejected and unwanted, forced to reexperience a lifetime without love or warmth or touch. She would throw herself into the grave, Tripitaka knows, if she thought for even a moment that it would spare this creature the pain of living its meagre, feeble life like she was forced to live hers.

Easy, too, to assume that he’s talking about _her_ , the girl who pretended to be a boy, who tried so hard to be a monk, who transformed every part of herself and hid the truth inside her stolen robes.

Looking up at him, though, sober and strangely solemn, lost in thought even as he speaks, she gets the distinct impression that he’s not actually talking about either one of them.

“You know he’s all talk, right?” she says, very carefully. “Monkey, I mean. He talks a lot, but…”

Pigsy avoids her eye, but his breath stutters in his chest when she doesn’t finish. “He talks a lot, yeah,” he says, with the worldly weariness of someone who has thought about this a great deal. “So much that a god starts to think some of it must be true. Even a village idiot gets a brainwave once in a while, right?”

“Sure.” She leans in, just a little too casually, and bumps his massive side with her shoulder. “And even the Monkey King screws up once in a while, too.”

He grimaces. “Not nearly so often as some of us.”

“And much more often than others.” She’s not really one to talk, she knows, but that doesn’t really matter; this isn’t about her. “My point is, he’s not in any position to give you a hard time when you do it.”

“Kind of you to say,” Pigsy says, still not looking at her. “But he is. I mean, he really, _really_ is. You know, he’s kind of our meal ticket. What he says… it matters.” He takes a deep breath. “Besides, he’s not exactly wrong.”

Tripitaka shrugs, hoping a little of her indifference will rub off on him. “He’s not exactly free of his own mistakes, either. You know, like the one that made the world what it is?” She expects him to chuckle at that, but he doesn’t, so she shakes it off and moves on. “He’s no cleaner than you are, Pigsy. And until he is, he doesn’t get to tell the rest of us how much we’re worth.”

She shifts a way away from him, then, letting the words sink in without the pressure of proximity, watching his bulky frame quiver in rhythm with his breath. It’s hard to tell for sure if he’s really convinced, if she’s offered him any measure of comfort or even broken through to him at all; he’s so good at keeping his thoughts close to his chest, sometimes talking to him feels like playing a game of cards, like searching for secret codes behind every shift, every twitch, every line on his face, trying to figure out which one of them has got the better hand.

She’s never been particularly good at games.

Pigsy is better, but apparently he’s not in the mood to play today. He takes a moment to himself, features and thoughts closed off and out of sight, then he sighs, opens himself back up again, and says, apropos of nothing, “I like it here.”

Tripitaka smiles. “So do I.”

“Means a lot,” he goes on, nodding sadly to himself. “Being part of something. I mean, part of something _good_. Not like… before.”

He swallows hard, and has to take a moment to compose himself; Tripitaka shuffles back another hand’s space to give him more room. He still has a long way to go, she knows, before he can look back on his past deeds and relationships and feel anything other than shame, but it bodes well that he is able to shuck that pain off now. It wasn’t always so easy, and she has watched his journey far more closely than the others.

“You’ve come a long way,” she tells him. “Whatever Monkey may think.”

“I don’t know about that. But thanks for saying it.” He smiles, only a little watery. “Like I said, I like it here. Standing up for something that matters, you know? Being one of the good guys for once in my wretched life. Being one of _you_.” His lips quirk; Tripitaka recognises the desperate need, familiar in all three of them, to leaven them moment. “Bloody idiots that you are.”

Tripitaka laughs. “You and Monkey both need to work on your endearments.”

“Ha! True enough.” His eyes grow clouded again, then, fondness mingling with a knowing sort of nostalgia. “Looks like he’ll have plenty of opportunity to practice his, though.”

It’s veiled and coded, but in a way that’s meant to be deciphered; she knows what he’s getting at well enough, and she follows his gaze to their still-slumbering companions, still entwined, missing only her to make the tangle of limbs and warmth complete.

Looking at them, she feels a lump forming in her throat, panic and the twist of dread, but along with it a depth of love the likes of which she’s never known. It is beautiful, and it is terrifying, and it warms and freezes her at the same time, just like the clashing temperatures of their bodies. She feels—

She feels a lot. For him, for her, for _them_ and everything that means.

But she is here now, not there, and her present company is not the kind that makes her feel that way. She closes her eyes, brings herself and her fast-beating heart back to the present, and turns back to Pigsy.

“We’re a team,” she tells him. Firm and sober, so he can see that she is focused on him now, completely. “The _four_ of us. Whatever else changes—” She won’t insult him by pretending they’re haven’t changed already. “—that won’t. Not ever. No matter who screws up, no matter how our feelings might shift, no matter how difficult or painful the path may gets. We started this quest together, and that is how we’re going to finish it. Together.”

Slowly but surely, piece by piece, his smile grows easier. He doesn’t relax completely, but he’s better than he was, clarity cutting through the clouds behind his eyes, bringing with it daylight and colour and the quietest sort of relief.

“You give a hell of a speech,” he says, softly awed. “For a fake monk.”

Tripitaka chuckles, accepting the harmless cut with grace. “A fake monk who ran away from her problems rather than dealing with them,” she reminds him. “Seriously, Pigsy. We’ve all screwed up. Most of us badly, some of us _really_ badly.” She flashes him a grin, wry and just a little sharp, the kind she knows he will understand well. “If you really want to disappoint us, you’ll have to try a whole lot harder.”

Finally, wondrously, he laughs.

“All right, that’s enough.” He rolls his eyes, but the mirth and the sunlit colour remain, even in that. “You’ve made your point, you daft little thing.”

Tripitaka catches him by the wrist, fingers tracing the worn leather of his bracer, well-used and well-fitted, tough and a little bit worn, just like rest of him.

“Good,” she says, and means it with all her heart.

His chuckle is dry but warm. “Well, now, I suppose it is, at that.”

He still doesn’t look completely steady, for all his eye-rolling and easy-sounding laughter, but he does look like himself again, for the first time since he woke them in the middle of the night frantic over their missing weapons.

It’s a good, strong start, and she will gladly take it.

*

It is well past lunchtime before Monkey and Sandy finally stir.

Sandy wakes first. She sits up only halfway, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, then looks down at the body still wrapped around hers. The blinking turns to frowning, the grogginess to puzzlement and then to outright confusion, the kind of comical double-take Tripitaka has never actually seen in a living person before. It’s hard to tell in her present state, whether she was expecting to find Tripitaka instead, or whether she’s just surprised to see a body there at all, but the befuddlement on her face is nothing short of hilarious as she leans down, squints into Monkey’s still-sleeping face, and gingerly prods his forehead.

The contact is like a lightning-strike. Monkey jerks awake, bolting upright like he’s been stung, instantly alert and not at all happy to find Sandy’s face barely a breath away from his own.

“What’s your problem?” he yelps, scrambling backwards like he’s afraid she has the plague. “Back off, will you?”

Sandy blinks a couple more times, as though to reorient herself, then shrugs and glides up to her feet. “As you wish,” she says, typically unoffended. “Though I feel I should point out that _you_ were the one cuddling _me_.”

“Actually,” Pigsy volunteers, with a ‘helpful’ grin, “you were both cuddling each other.”

“It was very sweet,” Tripitaka adds, quite seriously.

Monkey and Sandy stare at them. Then, with their usual perfect synchronicity, they turn and stare at each other.

“That,” Monkey says, in a very firm voice, “did _not_ happen.”

Sandy nods sagely. “They’re clearly hallucinating. Perhaps it was the mushrooms.”

“You’d better hope not,” Pigsy deadpans. “Because they’re all we have for lunch.”

Monkey’s face falls.

Not undeservedly, as it turns out. Pigsy is still wary about starting a fire amid so much dry grass, and so they have to make do with what’s left over from breakfast, uncooked and untended. The few remaining mushrooms have almost entirely dried out by now, becoming tasteless and unpleasantly difficult to swallow; only Pigsy shows any enthusiasm for them, and Tripitaka suspects that’s more for show than anything else.

Monkey, being as broody and argumentative as ever, eats like someone is holding a blade to his throat, grumbling and complaining the whole time. Sandy, sitting opposite him, chokes down approximately two bites of her portion, then blandly announces that a lifetime of starvation was a lesser torture and pushes the rest as far away from her as possible.

Tripitaka might chide them both for their petulance — Pigsy is still a little bruised and sensitive, and she can tell he feels this failure as keenly as the rest, for all that it was borne of common sense — but the almost-affection when they look at each other, shared disgust lighting up both their faces, makes it very hard to feel anything but love, even when they’re both behaving like children.

Still, for Pigsy’s sake, she makes a point of remarking generously on how well-preserved the mushrooms are, even without proper preparation. She’s not sure he really buys the lie, transparent as it is, but he seems to appreciate the effort just the same.

It’s all very domestic, in a dysfunctional sort of way. And it is pleasant and enjoyable and it feels achingly, wonderfully like _home_ , and Tripitaka thinks, brief though the moment is, that she would happily sit here just like this, eating inedible mushrooms and shaking her head at her stupid, stubborn, wonderful gods, for the rest of her life.

The moment lasts just as long as the meal does. But then it’s over, the meal and the moment both, and they have to decide their next move.

And then, of course, it’s back to business as usual.

“Obviously,” Sandy says, with the firmness of someone who can see no other possible path, “we need to find others of her kind.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Monkey shoots back moodily, “we don’t even know what its kind _is_.”

It’s a fair point, and one Tripitaka has thought about more than a few times before now. She doesn’t generally enjoy siding with Monkey, not least of all because he becomes insufferable when she does, but she can’t deny that he has the right of it here.

“Better to just wait until it hatches,” she says, addressing Sandy to keep from having to say ‘he’s right’ to his face. “At least then we’ll know what kind of creature we’re dealing with.”

Sandy turns the egg over in her hands, quietly contemplative. “Those monsters don’t venture far from the water,” she says, with hard-earned authority. “So they must have found her somewhere close to one of their caverns. Surely that makes for a suitable starting point?”

“Those caverns went on for leagues,” Monkey snaps, rolling his eyes. “That’s a lot of ground to cover.”

The look on Sandy’s face, thoughtful and sober, makes it quite clear that she’s been thinking extensively on this very subject. Tripitaka has a feeling she knows where this is heading, but she bites down on the inside of her cheek and keeps her mouth shut just the same. Sometimes, she’s learned, the easiest and most painless option is just to sit back and let the disaster unfold on its own.

“It’s a shame,” Sandy murmurs at last, with a small, sly smile, “that none of us are able to traverse great distances with ease.”

Monkey glares. “Don’t you dare—”

“Such a _dreadful_ shame,” she breezes, ignoring him quite spectacularly, “that none of us are _powerful_ enough to achieve a suitable vantage point—”

“No.”

“—for scouting such distances—”

“I said no!”

“—swiftly and efficiently—”

“Stop it!”

“—and with _panache_.”

Pigsy, choking on poorly-smothered laughter, says, “I mean, you’ve got to admire her dedication.”

“No, we don’t,” Monkey growls, still glaring daggers at Sandy. “My cloud is a celestial gift. Not a toy.”

Sandy tilts her head to one side, all faux-surprise and wide-eyed innocence. “Oh, yes,” she says, like this is some great revelation. “You _do_ have a cloud, don’t you?”

Tripitaka drops her head into her hands, moaning feebly to mask her giggles.

“This is ridiculous,” Monkey grumbles. Tripitaka can’t very well disagree, but she keeps that to herself and lets him rant. “We’ve got a quest to get back to! Saving the world, remember? We don’t have time to go flying all around the countryside in the vain hope of spotting some random who-knows-what that happens to lay giant heat-sucking eggs.”

“A little detour wouldn’t hurt,” Sandy insists.

“I…” His mouth hangs open for a second. “Haven’t we had enough detours for one eternity?”

Sandy considers this for nearly a full minute. The sly look does not leave her face, to Tripitaka’s simultaneously amusement and despair.

“I understand,” she muses at last, nodding decisively to herself. “You’re just trying to save face, yes?”

“I… wait, what?”

“It’s the only explanation.” She nods again, firmer. “You want to keep her with us. But you’re concerned about your reputation. You don’t want us to think less of you for having feelings, and you would never admit that you might _care_ …”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Tripitaka clears her throat. She doesn’t need to say anything; the sudden flush on his face says he’s heard her point loud and clear.

Bolstered by this barely-there exchanged, Sandy presses on. “So you save face. You insist that we don’t have the time or the resources to search for others of her kind, knowing perfectly well that we do, because you secretly don’t want us to find them and have to send her away. Because you don’t want to have to admit that you’d miss her.” She nods for a third and final time, with understandable triumph. “A most clever plan. I applaud your cunning.”

Monkey makes a sound like a drowning cat. “That’s not… you little…”

Still cackling like a madman, Pigsy says, “Just use the bloody cloud, will you?”

Monkey turns to Tripitaka, floundering, arms spread wide in a plea for intervention.

Tripitaka, for her part, just shrugs, smothers her own laughter, and says, “I can’t order her to stop being smarter than you.”

“It’d be better for everyone if you did,” he gripes, but seems to concede defeat at last. They all know there’s no arguing with Sandy in her rare moments of clarity and coherence. “Fine. A _quick_ detour, then. Just to shut you up.” He hums for a moment, calculating. “And maybe scope out the local demon life, too. Might as well get something productive done while I’m chasing fantasies, right?”

Tripitaka smiles her approval, lifting herself up to give him a condescending pat on the shoulder. “Whatever takes the sting out.”

Sandy, meanwhile, is beaming like the world has just lit up all around her, like she’s just been giving a rare and priceless gift from the most unlikely source. She doesn’t say anything further, no doubt aware that it would jeopardise everything she’s worked for, but the radiant glow surrounding her makes Tripitaka’s heart surge with warmth and a desperate sort of affection.

Going by the look on his face as he turns away, flushed and a little hasty, Monkey shares rather more of that feeling than he would like to admit.

*

They hold camp while Monkey and his cloud go scouting.

By mutual agreement, the egg stays with them. Sandy is typically overprotective of the thing, and not even Monkey can deny the potential for disaster in taking it up to such dizzy heights. He agrees, if somewhat reluctantly, to let her keep hold of it, at least until he can confirm the whereabouts of any potential relatives, then takes to the skies almost before the words are fully out, no doubt to avoid further gloating.

Not that he has any reason to worry about that. Sandy’s smugness is usually a limited thing, easily dropped, and even with two successive victories in hand she mostly keeps it under wraps. She’s content just to have the egg back in her arms, to not have Monkey breathing down her neck, demanding that she hand it over to him, insisting that he makes a better incubator than she does, and generally making the whole affair into some kind of competition.

It’s a breath of fresh air for all of them, Tripitaka thinks, not having to deal with that every five minutes.

They sit together, her and Sandy, shaded under a large tree, and watch without offering to help as Pigsy forages nearby for edible roots.

“It’s a strange sensation,” Sandy muses, head bowed low over the egg, keeping her features safely hidden. “Being able to feel my extremities again.”

Tripitaka chuckles, heart kicking its relief between her ribs. “I can imagine,” she says fondly. “Cuddling with Monkey all morning has its advantages, hm?”

Sandy tenses, then grows very still, like a trapped animal paralysed by fear.

“You’d know better than I.” The words are a croak, thick with confession. “You’re far more familiar with such things. With Monkey himself, of course. And with that particular sort of…”

A shiver wracks her body, taut with discomfort; she swallows a few times, then shakes her head, unable to say it.

Tripitaka rests a hand on her arm, finishes gently, “…intimacy?”

Sandy nods, the tension slowly bleeding out into a kind of quiet vulnerability. She hugs the egg a little closer, like a child seeking comfort in a favourite toy or an old moth-eaten blanket, and she looks down at Tripitaka through the eyes of someone who is both afraid and ashamed of her own inexperience.

“I’m still a little frightened by it,” she admits quietly. “Intimacy. The very idea of it is terrifying to me. With you more than anyone, because you mean so much, because you are so precious and so perfect, and I am neither of those things.”

“You are,” Tripitaka whispers. “Oh, you are.”

Sandy shakes her head, then swallows convulsively, as though trying to choke down a nightmare. “With you especially,” she says again, softer. “But not just you. Him… that is, Monkey, as well.” She looks up, desperately vulnerable. “That’s what you wish of us, yes?”

This time, it’s Tripitaka who has to swallow, who flinches and tenses and starts. She’s never said it so directly before, with such ragged honesty, and it strikes a chord inside of her, loud and reverberative, like the bells in the monastery, to hear it said that way now.

“I…” She wets her lips. “I think… maybe?”

It is a lot. But there it is.

“Mm.” Sandy looks down at her hands, translucent where they’re pressed to the egg’s smooth surface; they’re trembling, but the rest of her is not. “One or both, I suppose it’s no less frightening either way.” Her fingers flex but she doesn’t lift them, and she doesn’t raise her head. “Intimacy. Touching you, touching him, being touched in turn. Contact, of any kind, that doesn’t come with pain. It is unfathomable. It is…”

She shakes her head, lost. Tripitaka suspects it is a great many things, and none of them simple.

For her part, though, she smiles. She remembers, as Sandy does not, the way she woke earlier, tangled up in them both, her on one side and him on the other, how naturally they all fit together and how easily the two of them came together to fill the space between them after she had left it.

“It was a beautiful thing,” she says to Sandy, letting the light of the memory touch her face and her eyes. “The way you let your guard down while you slept. In my arms, and then in Monkey’s. You weren’t frightened then, Sandy. You were calm, you were… you were _content_. And you slept so peacefully, so beautifully.”

Sandy fails to return her smile. “An illusion, I assure you. But with a little practice, perhaps…” She bends, resting her forehead on the top of the egg, letting the chill permeate every part of her until her breath quickens and grows shallow. “Would Monkey be patient with me, do you think? Is he capable of it?”

“I think…” Tripitaka swallows the unpleasant honesty that wants to burst out of her, settling instead for a different truth, softer and a little sweeter. “I think we could teach him to be.”

She shifts a little closer as she speaks, letting her palm rest over Sandy’s knuckles, the two of them warming and protecting the egg together. A quiet sort of promise, subtle and carefully coded, perhaps the only way that Sandy’s mangled, mixed-up mind is able to process such a complex, terrifying concept as ‘we’.

“Perhaps.” Sandy turns to study her. She keeps her cheek pressed to the egg’s surface, and Tripitaka imagines she can see the heat bleeding out of her, pulses of it fading behind her eyes, cloudy and dull and grey. “I did teach him to believe in her. No mean feat, yes?”

Tripitaka bites down on her tongue, resisting the urge to flinch as she recalls Monkey’s brutal honesty on that particular subject: _I don’t want to have to bury two dead things_. 

It is a comfort to her, knowing that his loyalty is to Sandy rather than his own fear of grief, that he is dedicated to keeping her well and whole and safe, protecting her even from her own stubborn impulses. A comfort to know that he cares, in spite of himself and all his insistences to the contrary.

But would it be quite so comforting to Sandy? She believed him wholly and completely, so easily convinced that he now sees the same thing she does in her precious egg, life and health and strength. Would she feel betrayed, knowing that she handed it over to someone who lied so thoroughly about his intentions?

Tripitaka isn’t sure she wants to know. So, again, she swallows down the truth and tactfully changes the subject.

“Maybe you could teach me too,” she says carefully. “I mean, not that. I don’t need any help believing in… well, anything, really.” She coughs. “I mean, uh…”

But she can’t seem to finish. Her throat suddenly feels too tight for the air she’s trying to push through it, and she has to cough to try and clear her airways.

Sandy sits up sharply, expression darkening with confusion and a faint hint of worry. “Tripitaka?”

Tripitaka coughs a couple more times, then swallows, gulps air, and blurts out: “The thing you said before.”

Sandy doesn’t look any less worried, but now she looks confused as well. “I say so many things.”

A fair point. Tripitaka takes a last deep breath and tries again. “After you saved me. You remember? You talked about teaching us… that is, teaching _me_ … to be better underwater. Or, well, above the water. In the water, I mean. Teaching me to be better in the water.”

Sandy blinks. For a moment, her expression doesn’t change at all; Tripitaka’s heart stutters, terrified of having to try and say all that again. Then, with excruciating slowness, the confusion surrenders itself to comprehension, and then to clarity.

“Ah.” Spoken as slowly as her shifting expression, like maybe it’s a struggle for her as well, to trust that her understanding is correct. “You’re afraid, now, of the water?”

“I…” This truth, at least, she will not hide from or deny. She has come so close to death so many times over the past few weeks, but few of those experiences left her so harrowed or in so much pain as this one. “A little bit, yeah.”

“Understandable,” Sandy says, echoing her thoughts with a faint, ghostly half-smile. “That is to say, I understand. There are things that have happened to me, as you know, that I am still dreadfully frightened of.”

Tripitaka does know this, with great intimacy. Abandonment, the ever-present nightmare that will likely never fade completely, the same shade of darkness as Monkey’s fear of grief, of embracing his feelings, of opening himself up to mourn the losses he’s endured.

They are so afraid of loss, she realises. All three of them, each in their own unique way.

Sandy, so frightened of being told once more that she is worthless, wasted, unwanted, of being abandoned and thrown aside, discarded and told that _lost_ is all she deserves to be. Monkey, so afraid, more and more with every new goodbye, of the countless losses piling up inside him, the mentors and friends, even enemies, that crawled into his heart and then broke it to pieces.

And Tripitaka as well. She, who has been saved, who is always being saved, who has watched friends and strangers alike sacrifice themselves so that she might continue to be saved, again and again and again.

She is terrified too, she realises. Not of drowning or falling or dying, but of the opposite, of the steep price that comes with escaping those things, with being saved and loved and kept alive. The Scholar and the real Tripitaka, the monks who let her steal their robes and claim their identity, the gods that Davari sacrificed at the Jade Mountain so that she might be ‘motivated’.

And Gwen.

Gwen, who took for herself the death meant for Tripitaka, who embraced it, perhaps even welcomed it, lit up by hope and faith after five hundred years with none. Tripitaka cannot — _will not_ — allow her sacrifice to be just another narrow escape. She will not allow any of them to be reduced to that.

“I think,” she says out loud, “we all need to face our fears.”

Sandy sits up a little straighter, frowning. “I think so too.”

“And I think,” Tripitaka continues, breathless with the weight of it, terrifying and beautiful. “I think we can help each other. You, me, Monkey. The three of us together. I think our fears complement each other. Your fear of abandonment, his fear of grief and mourning, my fear of…”

 _…of not dying_.

She doesn’t say it. Can’t. It feels so silly, so trivial next to the pain and the trauma that Sandy and Monkey live with every day. It makes her feel terribly, tragically human, and so she keeps it locked up inside herself.

Not that it matters. Sandy has stopped listening.

She’s gone very still, tense and trembling and holding her breath, face drained of what little colour it once had. Looking at her, a thrum of worry settles in Tripitaka’s chest; it is not unlike Sandy to lose focus in the middle of a conversation — even, sometimes, in the middle of a word — but she is attentive without fail when Tripitaka is the one speaking, and doubly so when they’re discussing something important. That she’s lost focused now, while they’re talking about _this_ …

Tripitaka touches her face, tries to bring her back. “Sandy?”

Sandy flinches away like she’s been stung, and lets out all her breath in a great shuddering rush. “ _Tripitaka_.”

She looks down as she says it, eyes wide and bright and fearful, and—

And Tripitaka realises, feeling her own breath hitch as she follows her gaze, that she wasn’t talking to her.

“Oh,” she whispers, as the truth rocks her like a blow. “That… um, is that…?”

“Yes.” Sandy runs a tentative, trembling hand over the surface of the egg, and blinks back tears. “A _crack_.”

*


	6. Chapter 6

*

It is another hour before Monkey gets back.

By then, the surface of the egg is rippled with fractures, its perfect smoothness splintered and cracked and split into pieces, its moonlit glow fading to wan whiteness under the efforts of the creature within. It is a mess of a thing now, bearing little resemblance to the flawless orb that Sandy scavenged from the depths so long ago, and yet somehow, at least to Tripitaka, it is more radiant now than it ever was when it was intact.

Sandy, meanwhile, is frantic.

She’s set it down in the grass, giving the creature the space it needs to hatch on its own, but the separation has made her agitated and frenzied; she’s fretting, almost inconsolable, and on more than one occasion Pigsy has been forced to pin her down to keep her from pouncing on the thing.

“It’s a delicate process,” Tripitaka explains, with more patience than she feels. “Best to just leave it alone and let nature take its course.”

Monkey, descending from the heavens on his cloud, takes one look at the thing and immediately — predictably — draws the wrong conclusion.

“You _broke_ it?” he yelps, the instant he sees the cracked shell. “I’m gone for, what, a minute, and you idiots _break_ it?”

Venting a little of her helplessness, Sandy shoves him in the chest. “Shush!”

Tripitaka sighs and steps not-at-all-casually between them to preclude further needless brawling. “It’s not broken,” she says to Monkey. “It’s hatching.”

It takes a couple of seconds for that to sink in. He stares at her for a long moment, like she’s speaking in a foreign tongue, then narrows his eyes suspiciously at Sandy, then turns at last to stare at the egg, furrowing his brow as he takes in the state of it.

Tripitaka thinks the cracks and fractures should really speak for themselves at this point, but apparently Monkey is just as blithe and naive as Sandy in some things because he still looks wholly unconvinced.

“Are you sure?” He cocks his head to the side, assessing. “Still looks broken to me.”

Sandy shoves him again, reaching effortlessly over Tripitaka’s head.

“Be quiet!” she cries, fretting all over again. “You’re disturbing a _delicate process_.”

Monkey glares at Tripitaka. “Will you stop teaching her new words?”

He sobers quickly, though, when the egg begins to wobble precariously where it lies.

They crowd around it, all four of them, Monkey and Sandy jostling and elbowing each other to try and get closer. Pigsy hangs back a little way, still self-conscious and nervous about his place in all of this; no doubt he senses that this moment is theirs far more than his, that his place is as far back as possible, lest Monkey turn his ire on him once more. For all his bad choices in life, he’s never been one to seek out the spotlight, and he happily retreats to the background here.

Tripitaka would very much like to follow his example, to slink off to a safe distance and let the others have their moment in peace, but she doesn’t get the chance. Before she can move at all, Monkey grabs one of her hands and Sandy catches the other, both of them pulling her in close; they’re moving independently, each seemingly oblivious to what the other’s doing, but still somehow the connection resonates through all three of their bodies, binding them together in a quiet, prayerful moment. Unconscious, perhaps, but beautiful just the same.

Tripitaka is not and has never been a real monk, but in this moment, aching and awed in the moment of birth, she feels so much like one she can barely breathe.

Monkey is breathless too, body quivering to her right, watching the egg with his dark eyes sparkling. In the thrall of the moment, he seems to have forgotten himself, all his prior protestations thrown to the wind; he’s whispering to himself, hushed, feverish prayers that Tripitaka can only half-hear, like he’s willing the animal inside to live, to be stronger than he’s always said it was.

Sandy, on her other side, is definitely not breathless. Taking air in rapid, shallow gulps, she’s practically hyperventilating.

“She’s so weak,” she mumbles, frantic and panicky, more to herself than either of them. “Her spirit is so weak, so fragile. I should—”

“Don’t.” Monkey throws out his free arm to stop her as she stumbles forward; he doesn’t look up from his own reverie, but Tripitaka can feel the tension in him, compassion and a deep dread he’ll never let show. “You can’t pour any more of yourself into that stupid thing. It’s done, it’s over. Either you— either _we_ did enough, or we didn’t. Whatever happens now, it’s on him.”

Sandy bristles. “ _Her_.”

It’s a ridiculous thing to argue about in a moment like this, but Tripitaka understands the need for a distraction, for something pointless and simple to focus on, technicalities and semantics, little things that they can control.

Well. Sort of.

Monkey, rather charitably, lets the dispute slide for now. His eyes, still fixed on the egg, are wider than Tripitaka has ever seen them, and the air around him is as still and heavy as his body.

She knows what he’s thinking: that even if the creature does find the strength to struggle out of its egg, it probably won’t live out the day. She is afraid, too, of seeing it emerge and finding that to be the truth, of learning beyond all doubt that he was right all along.

She doesn’t know if Sandy feels the same way, or if she still believes beyond all rational doubt in the creature’s strength and durability, in the power of the name she chose with such care. She’s not sure she wants to know.

She is awed, and she is anxious, and she is deeply afraid, and she wishes—

A lot of things. Not least of all, that they can draw this moment out forever and never have to endure its consequences.

But no amount of wishing can stave off the course of nature, and the moment of truth is as inevitable as the moment Monkey realises he can’t hold his breath for another second and lets it all out in a ragged gasp.

The creature emerges at last, a quivering ball of wet down and fluff, bedraggled and croaking piteously. A sort of bird, stunted and misshapen, with a large, bulbous body, an enormous beak, and the tiniest wings Tripitaka has ever seen on a creature made for flight. It flops over onto its side as soon as it’s free of its egg, and stays there, motionless except for the desperate rise and fall of its body as it struggles to breathe.

Looking at it, Tripitaka’s heart sinks. It doesn’t take an expert to figure out that the poor thing won’t last long.

Monkey lets go of her hand, moving forward to study the strange animal more closely. His eyes are dark, his expression unreadable, and he takes great care not to touch it at all.

Sandy is not nearly so careful. She crouches in front of it, one hand pressed with great urgency to its heaving, wet body, and her face twists with distress as she finds its stuttering heartbeat.

“She is so very weak,” she says in a hoarse, tremulous voice.

Monkey bites down on his tongue. “Yeah,” he rasps. “ _He_ is.”

It is very deliberate this time, a distracting tactic to take Sandy’s mind off the bitter, tragic truth. Tripitaka smiles, a little sad but touched by his thoughtfulness.

A part of her, always curious, thinks about checking the fact for herself, but she knows it would be pointless. For all her worldliness in other matters she knows no more about gauging this sort of thing than she did when the creature was still in its egg. Male or female, how could she tell? And even if she could, why would she take away their favourite distraction in the very moment when when it’s most needed?

It is certainly needed now.

The truth of Sandy’s words resonate all the more clearly now that the creature is out and the evidence is there for all to see: it _is_ weak, and breaking free from its egg has only made it weaker. It speaks volumes, she thinks, that even Sandy — in her infinite denial — is willing to say the words out loud, to admit what has been clear to Monkey from the start: that it may not be strong enough to survive.

Over the top of her head, Tripitaka locks eyes with him. His are burning dark, and she sees in them all the things he will not say, the pain he is already bracing for, Sandy’s and his own, grief and mourning and loss.

 _I told you so_ , he doesn’t say. But still, in the silence, she hears him.

Sandy, meanwhile, is bowed low over the creature’s large head, not to examine it like Monkey, but to try and speak to it.

“Your name is Tripitaka,” she tells it gently. “And you’re not alone.”

Tripitaka, swallowing down a wave of emotion, leans in to rest a hand on her shoulder.

“She knows,” she whispers. “Like you said, she knows.”

She doesn’t know if that’s true or not. The creature is barely alive, weak and sickly and clearly oblivious to its surroundings, but it doesn’t matter; Sandy needs to believe that her efforts were worth something, that this pitiful little bird-thing sees her and hears her and knows that she cares for it. True or not, it is in no condition to speak for itself, and so Tripitaka — the real one, human and fallible, just as weak but not nearly so quick to die — takes the words upon herself instead.

Sandy’s shoulder is hard and thin under her hand, the jutting bone digging painfully into Tripitaka’s palm. She is so tense, but she doesn’t acknowledge the contact — or the words — at all.

“I believe in you,” she says to the creature, low and reverent, like there is no-one else in the whole world, only the two of them. “I believe that you are strong. I believe that you will survive. But if you don’t…”

Gently, carefully, she picks it up, cradling it in her arms like she did when it was still unhatched, pouring all of her warmth into its too-still body, all of her love and her hope and her faith.

Monkey touches her other shoulder. Awkward, uncomfortable, mirroring Tripitaka a little too closely, like he doesn’t really know how to do this sort of thing without her guidance. And maybe he doesn’t, at that; he’s never had much use for compassion, and he’s certainly never had any reason to show it to Sandy before. This is strange new territory for all of them, and it shows in the harrowed look on his face, slightly fearful as he squeezes tight.

“If you don’t,” he finishes for her, following her gaze to find the creature, “we’ll give you a proper burial.”

Tripitaka swallows hard; there is a lump in her throat that won’t be dislodged, and it makes speaking very difficult. “Did you…” She coughs, then tries again. “Did you find any other creatures like that out there?”

He doesn’t answer for a long, tense moment. His eyes are still fixed on the creature, his hand still tight on Sandy’s shoulder, and with so much going on it’d be easy to assume he simply didn’t hear her.

She knows better than that, though.

Monkey has never been one for subtlety, and he has no talent for hiding his feelings. She can see the way his body responds to the question, giving him away; his jaw is suddenly pale and tense fingers tightening in little spasms on Sandy’s shoulder, clenching until she grimaces and pulls away.

He’s conflicted, Tripitaka realises. He has an answer, but he doesn’t know whether he should give it.

Judging by the way he looks at Sandy, eyes growing darker as they turn away from the ailing creature, it’s for her sake that he doesn’t immediately blurt out the simplest truth, for her sake that he hesitates at all. She, who he insists is stupid, who he claims has earned all the pain coming her way, and here he is, taking a moment out of kindness, to consider what will cause the least.

Tripitaka lets that settle inside her, a ribbon knotted around her heart.

 _You do care_ , she thinks, looking at him. Whatever he might want them to believe, whatever he might have convinced himself he believes too, she can see that it’s not true: he doesn’t want to see Sandy suffer any more than he would want to bury her, any more than he really wants to bury the small, sad, fading little spirit she’s cradling in her arms.

Finally, in a low voice that gives away the lie, he says, “No.”

Sandy doesn’t even lift her head. “No other creatures at all?”

He coughs a couple of times, feigning indifference. “That’s right. Just whole a lot of dry grass and open, empty space. Kind of depressing, actually.” He’s trying to speak casually, carelessly, but he’s focused so hard on keeping his voice even that he leaves his body unchecked; it twitches and tenses, rippling spasms in time with his shifting temper. Tripitaka halfway suspects he’s actually trying to make himself angry, as though to cushion the blow of something softer. “Guess the demons must’ve chased them all away or something. No big loss.”

Sandy’s expression, thrown into shadow by the tangles of her hair, is impossible to read.

“I see,” she says, deathly quiet. “I suppose, then, we really are the only family she has.”

Monkey grunts. “Looks that way, yeah.”

Tripitaka doesn’t believe it for a second, but she knows better than to press the issue now. Monkey isn’t a particularly talented liar, nor does he often have the patience or the inclination to try; if he’s being evasive about this, he must have his reasons. She’ll ask him later, if they get the chance, or else she’ll trust that his intentions are pure. After everything he’s done, all the ways he’s tried to grow and change throughout this ordeal, she owes him that much.

Sandy swallows hard. Tripitaka gets a glimpse of her throat, pale and taut as it clenches, and then the flash of sunlight behind pale water as she finally lifts her head, showing the quiet sorrow in her eyes.

“Thank you, Monkey,” she says. “For trying to find them. And for helping me to look after her, even when you claimed not to care. And for…” Her shoulder gets even tighter, the muscle locking into a sort of seizure under Tripitaka’s fingers; she squeezes lightly, in time with the spasms, but it doesn’t seem to help. “For not discarding her.”

Tripitaka feels a kick in her chest, familiar now but no less brutal. “Sandy.”

Sandy whimpers a little, but does not answer.

Monkey climbs to his feet, not looking at either one of them. His limbs are shaking, like he’s trying to hold back something too heavy even for him. Tripitaka wants to reach for him, but she doesn’t want to let go of Sandy, so vulnerable and so much in need, holding the creature so close and so hard, so desperately, like she’s trying to pour not just her warmth but her whole spirit into its fading little body.

It is a tragic sight, and one that Monkey seems unable to endure. He looks angry, he looks heartbroken, he looks like he wants very badly to punch something, and when he turns away Tripitaka thinks she’s the only one who sees the tears glimmering in his eyes. It sends another bust of violence through her heart, nothing like the little kicks she feels for Sandy; with him, as always, it is harder, more powerful.

“Monkey,” she breathes.

But of course he ignores her too. He’s already turned away, and he doesn’t seem inclined to turn back now. 

“Keep your stupid thanks,” he says to Sandy. “I don’t need them.”

And off he goes, kicking savagely at whatever falls into his path, leaving Sandy with her arms full of half-dead bird and Tripitaka with a heart full of love and sorrow.

*

It’s some time before she gets a chance to talk to him alone.

For a long while, there’s no room for anything but the newly-hatched creature. Its feathers dry quickly under the mid-afternoon sun, but it does not grow any stronger from the fresh flood of warmth; it languishes in Sandy’s arms, or on its side in the grass when Monkey or Tripitaka compel her to put it down for a while, and doesn’t seem aware of anything they do or say.

Pigsy, eager to help without having to get too close, forages for something the little beast might want to eat. None of them know its species or its diet, but that doesn’t make much difference in the end; no matter what they offer, it refuses to eat.

Tripitaka halfway suspects it simply can’t. Too weak, too sickly; no doubt its fragile body can’t handle—

 _No_.

She pushes the thought aside, shoves it to the back of her mind and locks it up tight, keeps it to herself for Sandy’s sake, for the way she cradles it and whispers and sings to it, clinging with every ounce of strength she has to her faith that it will survive.

Tripitaka wants to be there for her, to stay close, to hold her hand when it’s free and squeeze her shoulder when it’s not, to be _present_. But it’s so much more painful than she thought it would be, watching her set herself up for heartbreak.

And so, hating herself just a little, she turns away. Closes her eyes, heartsick and aching, and wills herself not to watch as Sandy tries again and again to encourage the poor thing to eat, to drink, to do anything that might sustain it even a few hours longer. But it won’t, or else it can’t, and Tripitaka can’t bear to see the look on Sandy’s face as it cries and croaks in her arms.

She corners Monkey instead, and he seems as grateful as she is for the excuse to slip away, to find a quiet little spot, just the two of them, apart from Sandy and her rising pain.

“I told you,” he mutters, without preamble.

Tripitaka ignores him. She doesn’t want to talk about it, and she is not yet ready to admit he might be right.

Instead, changing the subject as deftly as Pigsy, she looks him in the eye and says, “Why did you lie?”

He bristles, then lies some more. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tripitaka sighs. She hadn’t really expected him to be forthcoming or open about this — or, indeed, about anything — but she was naive enough to hope. A silly thought, really; after all this time, she should know better.

“You were gone for over an hour,” she reminds him tersely. “Do you really expect me to believe you didn’t see _any_ wildlife in all that time?”

He shrugs, doing his usual poor job of feigning indifference. “Demon territory, remember? You know just as well as I do what those abominations are capable of. Is it really so hard to believe they might have wiped out the local animal life or whatever else?”

Well, maybe not. But—

“There’s also the fact that you’re a terrible liar.”

He has no riposte to that.

“What does it matter?” he snaps instead, getting defensive in the way he often does when someone has broken through his meagre defences. “Even if I had found some other weird freak-birds like that thing, we both know he— _it_ won’t see out the day. You really think moving it is going to make it any healthier?”

That’s probably a fair point. Even if the creature was inclined to cling to its life, which it doesn’t seem to be, Tripitaka doubts it would survive the heart-stopping rollercoaster of riding Monkey’s cloud.

“Why not just say that, then?”

He shoots her the same look he shot Sandy when she pressed him about it, conflicted and a little devastated, like he’s trying to figure out how much of his truth he should share. Even now, even with her, safely out of Sandy’s hearing. He must know that Tripitaka would never judge him, whatever his reasoning, that they’ve come too far and endured too much together; he must know that there’s nothing he can say to make her turn from him, and yet still he hesitates, looking no less troubled now than he did before.

It takes him a long time to grapple with himself, to work through it and over it and around it, to tie himself into knots until honesty — real, hard, brutal honesty — becomes the least painful option.

“Because,” he growls at last, fists balled at his sides, “she’s _stupid_.”

They both turn as he says it, looking to where Sandy is still fussing over the helpless beast, still trying in vain to get it to eat, to drink, to have as much faith as she does in its dwindling spirit.

“She’s not stupid,” Tripitaka says, with a faint flicker of anger, “just because she allows herself to feel things without shame.”

Monkey clearly disagrees on that point, but he he waves it off and doesn’t let it derail him. “If she thought there were others of its kind out there,” he says instead, “we both know she’d insist on trying to find them. Send it home, give it a happy ending, all that fairy-tale nonsense.”

“Of course she would,” Tripitaka says quietly.

“Of course she would.” His voice catches; he saves face with a frustrated, brooding sigh. “Like I said: stupid. Even if the dumb thing did somehow survive the trip — which it wouldn’t — what do you think its so-called ‘family’ would do if we showed up and dropped some half-dead lost cause on their doorstep? Do you really think they’d welcome their prodigal whatever-it-is home with open arms?”

Looking around, Tripitaka suspects not. Demons or no demons, the environment is harsh and dry, and she knows enough of wild animals to know that they’re not inclined to be charitable when resources are scarce.

“Okay,” she says, blowing out a breath. “I see your point.”

“Right.” He doesn’t sound triumphant though; in fact, he sounds like he was secretly hoping she’d prove him wrong. “That thing’s living on borrowed time. You know it, I know it, and you can bet the others of its kind will know it too. Do you really want to see the look on her face when she hands it over and they turn around and abandon it again?”

The word sticks in Tripitaka’s throat, her chest. It catches in the space between her ribs, makes her think of the look on Sandy’s face in the rare moments when she finds the courage to say it out loud. _Abandonment_ , a fate more painful than death. For her, at least, it was.

Monkey is right. It would do far worse than break her heart, to have to stand there and live out the very thing she’s so frightened of, the very thing she’s poured her heat and her heart, her everything into avoiding. Whatever Tripitaka might think about this situation, that much she knows beyond all doubt: if they can protect her from nothing else in the world, they have to protect her from that.

“So you did it for her,” she says carefully. “Lied, so she wouldn’t have to—”

“So she wouldn’t be blinded by her own idiocy,” Monkey interrupts, not nearly so charitable. “You can call it ‘feeling’ all you want, I still say she’s stupid. She doesn’t think things through; hells, she doesn’t think at all. I swear, sometimes I think there’s nothing but water between her ears.”

Despite herself, Tripitaka smiles. “She’s not had much opportunity for thinking,” she remarks steadily. “She’s been alone her whole life, surviving and starved and scared. I can’t imagine there’d be much use for common sense or rational thought in a world like that.”

It hurts to say it, but Monkey waves the point off like it’s an affront.

“Excuses.” He rolls his eyes, but there is a softness in them when they refocus, seemingly against his will. “Look, forget about that. My point is, this way, she can bond with the stupid thing before it dies, instead of wasting what little it has left on some pointless, cock-eyed…”

He trails off, voice strangled in his throat.

Feeling awed and dazed and thoroughly in love, Tripitaka touches his shoulder, then his side, trailing her fingers down to his clenched fist, the skin pulled tight over his knuckles.

“It would be easier for you,” she points out, breathlessly gentle. “Send it away. Let its own kind deal with it. No mourning, no mess, no grief. No need to make yourself suffer. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

He tenses. She can feel the tremors rippling under his skin, down to his bones. “You know I couldn’t do that to her,” he rasps. “Anything else, sure, whatever. But not _that_.”

Tripitaka doesn’t know what to say. The awed, infatuated feeling in her chest spreads and swells, engulfing all of her, bones and blood and body, until she can barely breathe through it. She looks to Sandy again, bowed over the body of her precious charge, still pouring everything she has into keeping its weak heart beating, its weak spirit alive, and she looks up at Monkey and sees him staring at her as well, damp-eyed and tight-jawed and heartbroken.

“Monkey,” she whispers.

He comes back to himself with a start, like the sound of her voice has lit a fire inside of him. He hisses, a strange, serrated sort of sound that lodges behind his teeth and then softens into a sigh.

“I’m not saying I care,” he says, though his voice is suspiciously thick. “But after everything she’s put us through for that stupid thing, I’m not going to let her sabotage herself now.”

Tripitaka counts out a handful of heartbeats. His, not hers; she can practically hear it hammering inside his chest, anger and passion and the powerful weight of his looming, inevitable grief.

“You know,” she says, pausing carefully between each word, giving him room to brace himself for another talk about his feelings. “It wouldn’t be the end of the world if you did care.”

Another growl stutters out of him, this one guttural and carrying a sort of trapped-animal wildness.

“It’s hard enough caring for one of you,” he snaps. “Looking over my shoulder every five minutes to make sure you’re safe, feeling all lost and helpless when you’re not around, worrying about you, feeling scared for you…” His eyes grow damp as he speaks, the confession weighing heavily, so he turns away to hide them. “Are you seriously saying you want me to put myself through all that twice?”

“I think you already have,” she says, smiling with both sorrow and joy. “I think you’ve already put yourself through it three times. Not just me, but all of us. If anything happened to any one of us, even Pigsy, I think you’d—”

“No, I wouldn’t.” He tries to growl again, but this time the sound dies before it makes it out of his throat, strangled by something just as powerful but not nearly so wild. “Because that would be _really_ stupid. Not to mention dangerous.”

Tripitaka quirks a bemused eyebrow. “To your ego?”

“To _everything_.” The strangled not-quite-a-growl is in his mouth now, pressing down on his tongue, distorting his words until they sound tearful and tremulous. “In case you’ve forgotten, monk, I already have the fate of the world on my shoulders. You, I can carry; you’re human and you hardly weigh anything. But they’re _gods_ , and I can’t…”

Tripitaka chuckles, wan but with warmth. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she says. “You’re always saying how much stronger you are than all the other gods put together. Surely a couple more wouldn’t do you any harm.”

“Seriously?” He barks a laugh, hoarse and shot through with pain; for the first time, Tripitaka wonders if this is something he’s thought about before. “You’ve seen how much Pigsy weighs, right? And _her_ …” He shakes his head, and the raw humour dissolves once more into grief. “She doesn’t even know which way is up most of the time. She’s messed up, and I don’t just mean about this. She’s a mess. And I don’t…”

He shakes his head. Tripitaka wants to leap to Sandy’s defence, to deny what he’s saying, but she knows she can’t, just as she knows that she shouldn’t even if she could have. If Monkey is going to be a part of this, he needs to walk into it with his eyes open. And that means understanding what _it_ really is, the bad as well as the good.

“She's not a mess,” she says, quietly earnest. “But you’re right: she needs a lot. A lot of patience, a lot of time, a lot of everything. She’s starting from a lot further back than we are, and she’ll need help figuring it all out.” She lets that sink in, watches the colours play across his face as he absorbs it. “But I think she’s worth it. And if you’re honest with yourself, I think you feel that way too.”

He grunts. “You know helping isn’t really my thing.” Still, he doesn’t sound as dismissive as he probably wants to. “She’s hard work. Hells, sometimes you’re both hard work. And if I’m going to…”

He stops, hands balling into fists at his sides, clenching in rhythm with the thundering of his heart.

Tripitaka feels an echo of it hammering in her own. It runs deep, what he’s not saying. What he—

What he’s afraid to say.

And so, as she is slowly learning to do, she says it for him. Slow and steady, recalling the way the Scholar used to break down even the most difficult, painful truths for her, soften them and sweeten them and make them easier to swallow, easier for even a stubborn, wilful young girl to accept.

“If you’re going to start caring for her,” she says softly, to Monkey, “like you care for me?”

She keeps the words whisper-low and feather-light, but still they shake him like a storm.

“I… _no_.” He’s swallowing convulsively, like he’s trying to drive back the emotion by pure force of will, like he can silence his heart by biting down on his tongue. “I don’t know, maybe? She loves you, I love you. We both… we both have that, right? We both…” He closes his eyes, swallows a few more times, then lets out a nervous, shaky breath. “And you…?”

Tripitaka struggles to breathe through the roaring of blood in her ears, the clamour in her head, the thundering rhythm of her heartbeat. She feels light-headed, she feels dizzy, she feels—

“Both of you.” It is as heavy as his words. Heavier, perhaps, because she is human and they are gods, and yet she is the one holding both of their hearts in her small, fragile hands. “Yes.”

Monkey whistles, then wets his lips. “Right.”

Tripitaka presses down on his knuckles, harder and harder until his fist cracks open, until she’s touching his palm instead, tracing the lines with her own. “Right?”

“Right.” Again, shakier but not scared. “It’s a _lot_ , monk.”

True enough, and she won’t try to deny that either. Not when he can see the same shakiness in her eyes, not when he can feel it thrumming through the veins in her hand.

“It is,” she says, and her voice is so much stronger than her heartbeat. “But you’re not the only one who has to carry it.”

That’s kind of the whole point, she thinks, but she doesn’t really know how to explain that to him, how to make it make sense to someone who has always had to carry everything all by himself, who has the whole world on his shoulders and the weight of all his bad decisions stuck quite literally on his head.

Monkey is so used to having to push back against everything that frightens him, so used to having to hold on to everything he cares about, to protect his heart and the people inside it, to stave off fear and pain and — most of all — grief. He’s been that way for so long, Tripitaka wonders if he’s ever been told he doesn’t have to do it all by himself.

He studies her for a long moment, nervous but open, then turns again to look at Sandy. She hasn’t moved, and neither has her floundering feathered charge; from this distance, they both look devastatingly small.

Monkey doesn’t seem to notice any of that, though. He’s not looking at her like the idiot he feels he has to protect, or the companion who is more trouble than she’s worth, or any of the other things he says when he rolls his eyes and calls her stupid; he’s looking at her now like she’s suddenly become something new, something vast and powerful and beautiful, something that even Tripitaka can’t see, something wholly and completely _his_.

“I guess,” he says, very slowly.

Tripitaka’s vision is blurred with the most precious tears. She blinks them back and says, “She’s strong.”

“Hmph.” But this time he doesn’t insist she’s not. “I mean, she did carry that stupid egg around for two days. And you know, it was so cold and so heavy, and she…” His eyes are dark and damp when he turns back to face her, but this time he does not try to hide it. “She poured her whole self into it, everything she had, and she never uttered a word of complaint. So maybe… I mean, maybe she’s a _little bit_ tougher than I thought she was. Maybe she can…”

He stops. Tripitaka squeezes his hand, lets her warmth flow into his palms and mingle with his.

“Maybe she can carry you too,” she finishes with a smile. “You know, if you ever need her to.”

“I won’t,” he blurts out, instinctive and automatic. Then, seemingly as much to his surprise as hers, he softens again. “But, uh, I guess it’s good to know she could. You know, if I did. Which I won’t. But if I did. If…”

Again, he seems unable to finish. But this time the words unspoken are enough.

They turn again, together, to watch Sandy huddling over the sickly little creature. Still pouring herself into it, even now, still bleeding out her warmth and her strength and her heart, all the parts of her that Tripitaka loves so well, the parts that Monkey will never admit he might love as well. Her faith is radiant, even as it falters, and watching her, holding Monkey’s hand so tightly in her own, Tripitaka feels like she could be radiant too.

For now, for once, there is no need to say anything more.

*

They gather together, the four of them, to discuss their next move.

“No sense in sticking around here,” Pigsy says, playing the voice of reason while the rest of them are still tangled up in feelings. “Can’t stay here forever on account of that little fella.” He cuts a too-quick glance at the bird in Sandy’s arms, then kicks a few times at the dry grass. “And I’d sooner not have to make camp tonight without being able to make a decent fire.”

Tripitaka nods her agreement, eager to get away from this place of so many memories. “I’d like to put a little more distance between us and those caverns,” she admits, “if we can.”

It’s enough to make her shiver, just saying the words, though of course she knows it’s irrational. As Monkey predicted, they’ve seen no trace of their aquatic attackers since they broke through to the surface, and there’s no reason to assume that will change any time soon. But she’s still haunted by the memory of what it felt like to drown, of water filling her lungs and pain surging through her body like lightning. It may be a distant thing now, another almost-death to add to the ever-growing list, but she knows that she won’t feel safe until that place is far, far away.

Sandy, adjusting the bird’s weight in her arms, frees a hand to cover Tripitaka’s, offering what little protection she can from a moment that only exists in the past.

“You will not be taken again,” she says. “We will not allow it.”

“I know.” Still, it’s more of a challenge than it should be to look up at her and smile. “But unless you’re really committed to staying here until that… I mean, she…”

“ _He_ ,” Monkey says flatly.

“—until she gets her strength back—”

“—or doesn’t.”

Sandy snarls a warning, but otherwise ignores the blatant attempt at antagonising her.

“I’m not committed to anything,” she says to Tripitaka. “She is here, she is alive, and she knows that she is wanted.” Tripitaka rather doubts the withering thing knows anything of the sort, but she would never break Sandy’s heart by saying so; what matters is that Sandy believes it, and that the faith gives her strength. “Whether we remain here or resume our quest, those things will not change.”

This time, Monkey keeps his opinion on that subject to himself. 

“If he gets too heavy,” he says instead, rather gruffly, “let me carry him.”

Sandy tenses. She can’t possibly believe he’d try to discard the creature now, after everything they’ve all been through for it, but if she didn’t know better Tripitaka would swear the look on her face was terror.

“She’s not heavy at all,” she insists in a jagged, threatening sort of voice. “And she doesn’t need so much of my warmth any more.” Tripitaka knows that’s a lie — she’s touched her a few times since the creature hatched, and she’s felt the ice creeping back under her skin — but she knows better than to contradict her now. “Your task is complete, Monkey. Thank you, and goodbye.”

He blinks, visibly thrown. “I’m just saying—”

“Allow me to be clearer: your assistance is no longer needed.”

“Okay, but—”

“I said _no_.” Her eyes gleam steel-sharp, mirroring the danger in her voice. “I am enough for her now. She doesn’t need you any more. So stay away from us both.”

So saying, she glides back up to her feet, and turns to face the horizon, effectively putting an end to the conversation.

It might be unconscious, the way she pulls the shadows around herself, growing distant and unapproachable, but Tripitaka doubts it; Sandy may not be the most socially conscious god in the world, but she has a remarkable talent for making herself hidden when she’s feeling threatened or angry or upset. She’s trying to do that now, Tripitaka is sure, though she has no idea why; for once, Monkey has done nothing to warrant it.

“Sandy…” she starts, wavering between warning and worry.

Monkey, meanwhile, is not offended at all; in fact, he looks rather amused. “You can just say that you want him all to yourself,” he says with a cool smirk. “I know you’re jealous because he likes me better than you. It’s okay to admit it.”

Sandy turns back, teeth bared in a feral snarl. “My reasons are my own,” she says icily. “Do not touch her again.”

So saying, she spins on her heels and storms off, taking the hapless creature with her.

Monkey, watching her with his usual carelessness, shakes his head and says, “Yeah, she’s _definitely_ jealous.”

Watching as he saunters smugly after her, Tripitaka is not quite so sure.

*

They set out together, picking up the quest for what feels like the thousandth time.

There is a sort of comfort in the routine, in falling into step together to follow Monkey’s questionable lead as they have done so many times before. He claims to have gotten a decent look at the surrounding area while he was scouting on his cloud, and he swears that he knows exactly which direction they should head in. None of them really believe him — his track record is not exactly the best on that score — but that’s nothing new, and since he’s the only one with any idea where the sacred scrolls might be hidden they defer to him just the same, as they always have and probably always will.

He takes the lead as cheerfully as ever, happy to put some distance between himself and the creature faltering in Sandy’s arms, while Pigsy — exhausted, as ever, before they’ve even begun — doggedly brings up the rear.

Tripitaka, being tasked yet again with carrying Sandy’s scythe while she has her arms full, has ample opportunity to match pace with her. Sandy is predictably uncommunicative, defensive in the way she gets sometimes for reasons beyond the others’ understanding, but Tripitaka has no intention of letting her sulk in silence now, and she has no intention of letting her earlier undeserved outburst slide.

“What was that all about?” she demands, without preamble.

Sandy keeps her eyes on the horizon, a sure sign that she’s feeling uncomfortable; Tripitaka sighs, bracing herself for the usual attempts at evasion and hiding, both physically and emotionally.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sandy mumbles after a beat.

Tripitaka can’t help herself; she shakes her head and laughs. “You and Monkey are far too alike sometimes.”

She expects Sandy to bristle at that, given her mood, but she doesn’t.

“I suppose we are, at that,” she muses instead, in a strange, subdued sort of voice. “A terrible burden for you and Pigsy, I’m sure.”

Tripitaka’s mirth evaporates, and a measure of her patience along with it.

“I’m serious,” she says, a little harder now. “What in the world happened back there? Monkey was actually trying to be chivalrous for once, and you acted like he threatened to strangle that thing with his bare hands. He doesn’t deserve that, Sandy.”

Sandy is quiet for a long while, picking up her pace seemingly without realising it, working out her emotions through her body. It’s another thing that she and Monkey have in common, the unconscious tendency to try and outrun these uncomfortable moments, but it never lasts as long with her as long as it does with him. She is impossibly fast, but stamina is a consideration for her where it isn’t for Monkey; a few minutes pushing her legs to their limits, ignoring the way Tripitaka scrambles to catch up, and then she’s forced to slow back down.

“It’s nothing to concern yourself with,” she says at last. “Monkey’s right: I simply wanted her affections all for myself.”

“Really?” Tripitaka doesn’t even try to keep the disbelief out of her voice. “You honestly believe it likes him better?”

Again, Sandy doesn’t immediately reply, but this time she doesn’t try to run away either. She just hugs the poor beast a bit closer, pressing a cold kiss to its big head. It makes a strange groaning noise, the kind of sound a strangled frog might make, and gazes up at her through its filmy, amber-coloured eyes. So far as Tripitaka can tell, affection of any kind is rather beyond its abilities, and the look on Sandy’s face says she’s not as convinced as she’s pretending to be.

Still, she holds fast to her façade, setting her jaw with predictable stubbornness. “Exactly. Jealousy, yes?”

“Sandy.” It’s a warning now; Tripitaka’s patience has reached its limit. “You’ve dragged us through too much on account of that creature. Don’t try and lie to me about it now.”

That works, just as she knew it would; if there is one thing Sandy cannot endure, it’s disappointing Tripitaka.

She deflates instantly, coming to a stop so sudden that Tripitaka is nearly half a dozen paces ahead before she turns back and realises she’s fallen behind. She doubles back, keeping her sighs mostly to herself, and gestures for Pigsy to carry on ahead without them; between his laziness and Sandy’s liquid speed, they’ll likely have no trouble catching up, however long this conversation takes.

Besides, judging by the look on her face, the defiance cracking already into something tragic, they’re going to need the privacy.

Sandy doesn’t immediately acknowledge her when she returns to her side. She kneels in the grass, setting the creature down on its side, and rests her hands carefully over its tiny, down-covered wings. Tripitaka watches her shoulders, her chest, as she tries to match her breathing to the shallow in-and-out rhythm of its languishing body. She seems reverent, worshipful, and for a moment it’s as if they are the only two creatures in the world.

Finally, when the creature is settled and she’s sure they’re entirely alone, Sandy looks up at Tripitaka, sighs tiredly, and says, “I’m not as stupid as he thinks I am.”

It’s not news to Tripitaka, who has seen Sandy’s shrewdness too many times to think otherwise. “I know you’re not,” she says. “And I think he does too. In his weird way, I think he means it as a kind of endearment.”

Sandy takes a moment to absorb that, then she bows over the creature’s bulbous head and murmurs, like a lullaby, “Go to sleep now, Tripitaka.”

Tripitaka doesn’t know whether to feel amused or heartbroken as the creature goes through the motions of obedience. She doubts it was ever really awake to begin with, at least not in any meaningful sense of the word, but it closes its eyes at Sandy’s coaxing, and the strained rhythm of its breathing grows a little more even. It is a beautiful thing to see, the illusion of a connection between them, and a deeply tragic one as well.

“You have a way with her,” Tripitaka says softly.

“Her spirit is gentle,” Sandy replies, not really looking at her. “All it needs is gentleness in return. It would be just as responsive to Monkey, if he was capable of showing gentleness in the first place. Or to Pigsy, if he had the patience or the desire. Or to…”

She stops, wincing a little. Tripitaka covers her hands, feeling the rhythm of breath underneath.

“I’ve never been very good with animals,” she admits, and silently adds, _or gods_.

Sandy doesn’t seem to hear her. She’s studying the creature very closely, mouth moving silently as she counts out its heartbeats, seemingly waiting until she’s sure it’s asleep, like she’s worried it will hear what she’s about to say, and understand.

Tripitaka doesn’t try to disenchant her, nor does she try to hurry her along. She sits in the grass, waiting like they have all the time in the world to deal with this.

At long last, looking small and desperately vulnerable, Sandy kisses the creature’s forehead, the lifts her eyes and says, to Tripitaka, “I know that she’s going to die.”

Tripitaka chokes on her surprise. “You do?”

“I do.” Her voice doesn’t waver, not even for a moment. Tripitaka is awed, and a little afraid. “I can sense her spirit just as well as he can. I know that she lacks the strength to survive, and I know that she will likely perish before the end of the day. She is tired and she is suffering and she is going to die, just as he always said she would.”

“But you…” Tripitaka coughs, biting down on her own emotions, willing herself to be impartial for Sandy’s sake. “You keep telling us that she’s a survivor. That she’ll be strong and survive and…” She flounders, gesticulating helplessly. “Well, I mean, you know, all of it. You keep saying that, again and again and again. I thought…”

Sandy shuffles back, moving away from both of her companions, drawing the air around herself like a shroud.

Though she wants to, Tripitaka doesn’t try to follow. Experience has taught her that Sandy needs as much personal space as possible when she’s on the verge of a confession. Old instincts, no doubt, and the fear that any moment a companion will become an enemy, that she will need to run and hide, that she will need space and freedom to defend herself. Tripitaka yearns to reach out to her, but she will not breach the sanctuary that Sandy has made for herself. Not yet.

“What else would you have me say to her?” Sandy asks at last. 

Tripitaka blinks. As always, the words come out of nowhere, throwing her off-balance. “I’m sorry?”

“What else would you have me say?” Sandy says again. “That she is doomed? That there’s no point in even trying to survive? That she is a worthless, unwanted waste of a life, that she might as well simply give up and allow death to claim her? That she is…” Her voice breaks over a sob, and then another. “No. True or not, I will not tell her that. That is exactly what I have been trying to avoid, Tripitaka, what I have worked so hard to protect her from. Don’t you understand? She has to know that I believe in her, that I want her to live. She has to know that someone… that _someone_ …”

She stops, voice strangled completely by the threat of tears. Tripitaka’s heart hurts; she would give anything to move closer, to touch her, hold her, comfort her, but still she holds back. Not while Sandy is still shaking all over, not when she is so exposed, so raw, so broken.

“Okay,” she says instead, carefully distant. “I understand that, Sandy. I really do. But why lie to Monkey about it? You know he’d understand it too.”

“Would he?” Her voice is wet, and it sticks in her throat. “Really?”

Tripitaka sighs, aching with tenderness for both of them. “Do you really think he would’ve agreed to carry her this far,” she asks, “if he didn’t understand what you’re going through?”

Sandy thinks on this. “Perhaps not,” she concedes after a long beat. “But…”

This time, when she trails off and grows vulnerable, Tripitaka does move in closer. Just a little, but it is enough to let her reach out into the space between them, enough that she can offer a hand, an arm, a shoulder, enough that she can offer any part of her that Sandy is willing or able to take. Enough, too, for Sandy to back away and escape her completely, if that’s what she wants.

She doesn’t, though.

Tripitaka watches, holding herself as still as she can, as Sandy’s body wars with her heart, as she struggles against the instincts that kept her alive so long, the fear of rejection and abandonment that make her keep her distance, fighting with everything she has in her, until at long last her feelings override her reflexes, driving her forward to close the space between them. She snatches Tripitaka’s hand and holds on tight, clutching it to her chest like she’s searching for a replacement for the creature drowsing at her feet, so tight that Tripitaka wonders if she’ll ever let it go.

“He does understand,” she says again, squeezing Sandy’s clenching fingers. “He might not be very good at expressing it, but he does. He understands, and he cares, and he…”

“I know.” She clings to Tripitaka’s hand like a lifeline, like it’s the greatest source of strength she’s ever known, like the contact alone is drawing the words out of her. “Of course I know. He can’t hide his emotions any more effectively than I can. He has cared for much longer than he will ever admit. For you, for her. Perhaps, as well, for…”

And there she stops, trailing off just as Tripitaka knew she would. She ducks her head, flushing feverishly hot, and Tripitaka is overwhelmed by the desire to tilt her chin up and kiss the shame away just as she did with Monkey not so very long ago, drowning in the depths of her own feelings.

She doesn’t, though. In this, as with so many other things, Sandy requires so much more care and carefulness than Monkey. She would flinch, she would bolt, she would be terrified, and that is the last thing in the world that Tripitaka wants her to feel. She is already feeling so much, so deeply. Anything more would tear her to pieces.

So she lets the impulse die, sets it aside for a later moment, a softer, sweeter one, and asks again, “So why lie to him, if you know how he feels?”

Sandy swallows, fighting her instincts once again, so desperate to retreat into the shadows, to hide in her little sanctuary, so desperate to be alone where it’s safe and she can be as small as she needs. But she is so much in love as well, and so hungry for the warmth that Tripitaka has been offering for so long, from her body and her words and her heart.

She squeezes her hand so tightly it hurts, and she looks down at their tangled fingers, then up at the sun, then down again to the sleeping, struggling bird she has fought so hard to keep alive, and she doesn’t cry, not for any one of them, but she is blinking so rapidly that Tripitaka knows that she wants to.

And then, at last, she lifts her eyes and meets Tripitaka’s, and she swallows hard and says, rasping and in the most unbearable pain, “ _Because_ I know how he feels.”

Tripitaka is so thrown that she pulls her hand away. “What?”

Sandy swallows a couple of times, bracing herself. “Because I know,” she says again, softer. “Because I know that she is going to die and I know that Monkey is afraid of grief. Because I know that he would sooner throw himself from a thousand palace balconies, even to his own death, than suffer just one more loss. Even this one, even when he has tried so hard not to care about her. I know these things, Tripitaka, however stupid he thinks I am. And I want… I want so badly…”

The words dissolve, trailing off into embarrassed breathlessness, but they are enough.

“Oh,” Tripitaka breathes, awed and struck to the heart. “You’re trying to _protect_ him.”

Sandy flushes even harder, skin colouring more than Tripitaka has ever seen it. She’s ashamed to hear the words spoken aloud, she realises, and perhaps a little ashamed, too, of her inability to say them for herself.

“He never wanted this,” she whispers, sounding hoarse and ragged. “He only allowed it for my sake. Because he knew why I… because he _understood_. Why I had to believe in her, why it was so important to me to make sure she was not discarded or abandoned or left to die. He knew and he understood, and now he _cares_ , and that is my fault. It is my fault that he cares, and it is my fault that he will grieve now, _again_ , for a creature he never wanted to care about in the first place.”

She’s shaking again, so Tripitaka moves in close enough to open her arms, close enough to let Sandy slide into them, seeking out the shadows where they can both hide together.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, rocking her. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” The words are muffled, mumbled against the fabric of her scarf, but burying them there seems to make her feel safe enough to keep going. “He opened himself up to grief and loss and pain, all for me. He shouldn’t have to endure it.”

Tripitaka’s heart stutters in her chest, faltering and then instantly quickening. Pressed together as they are, she’s sure Sandy must feel it, though she shows no sign. She just holds Tripitaka tighter, buries her face in her robes, and waits.

“He’s going to endure it anyway,” Tripitaka says, when she trusts herself to speak; the words are hushed, a brush of contact against Sandy’s temple, but they carry. “He already cares. For you and me, even for her. Keeping her away from him won’t stop him from caring, and it won’t stop him from grieving. When she…” Sandy’s body twitches violently in her arms; Tripitaka takes a moment to steady her before pressing on. “When she… goes… he’s going to feel it just as deeply as you. You can’t protect him from that. And you shouldn’t. He needs it.”

“Perhaps,” Sandy concedes, still hiding her face. “But I can at least make sure he’s not here when it happens. For her to die while he holds her in his arms… for his grief to be there, on display, in its rawest moment…” She shudders once more, harder, and Tripitaka rocks her again, holding as tight and close as her trembling arms will allow. “I may not be able to protect him from his grief, but I can spare him that. I can give him distance, privacy, the freedom to face it alone, if that’s what he wishes. I can…”

She shakes her head, the rest of it lost to the fabric of Tripitaka’s robes. Tripitaka lets her stay there for a time, holding and rocking her, soothing both of their aching hearts together, before slowly, carefully, pulling herself free.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she says.

“I understand him too,” Sandy whispers, staring at ground. “I understand him, and I know what he feels, and I…” She closes her eyes, breathes steadily. “I care for him too, I think.”

Tripitaka knows this. She’s known it for a while, perhaps without even truly realising that she knows it. She’s seen the way they look at each other, the way they _don’t_ look at each other, the way they bicker and brawl and fall back again and again on bravado to hide their deeper, purer feelings. She knows the parts of Monkey that are lost and she knows the parts of Sandy that are broken, the pieces of them both that are terrified of being left alone, and she knows — because she has seen — just how beautifully those pieces fit together.

Her heart should ache, for both of them. She knows this. It should ache for Monkey, who would open himself up to grief and loss, who would face his own fears so that Sandy might face hers safely and unalone, and it should ache for Sandy too, who would try so hard to shelter him from his pain in the moment that it hits them both the hardest. She should ache and burn and hurt, knowing — as Monkey told her right from the start — that this can only end in pain and sorrow for everyone, that it will hurt them all, no matter what they do.

She should be grieving, even though the creature and its spirit yet live, because she can see, as Monkey has always seen, as Sandy can see now, that the pain and loss are inevitable. She should be grieving, should be crying…

But she is not.

Instead of heavy, her heart feels lighter than it has in almost as long as she can remember. Warmer, brighter, softer, awash in all the tiny ways they’ve come to care about each other, all the not-so-tiny things they’ve each done to try and ease each other’s suffering. They, who began this whole thing unable and often unwilling to look each other in the eye, much less see things from the other’s point of view, and now they’re both drawing the other’s pain into themselves, sharing the burden, carrying it between them… and they don’t even seem to realise they’re doing it.

They have no idea how far they’ve come, neither one of them. They’ve both been so busy looking at Tripitaka — the human and the animal, both versions — that they never thought to look up and realise that they were not alone, to see their own reflection in each other’s eyes, entwined and entangled and depthlessly beautiful.

The grief is inevitable. This, Tripitaka knows as well as they do, even without their godly talent for sensing the creature’s dying spirit. What little hope she might have held died when she heard Monkey’s words echoed at long last on Sandy’s tongue, the truth she spent so long fighting and denying and struggling against, the truth she cannot fight or deny any more. The creature will draw its last breath in her arms, just as it drew its first, and the three of them will bow their heads to bury and grieve and mourn it.

But they will do so together.

Monkey, accepting his grief with all the strength in his massive, powerful heart, supported by his friends, his more-than-friends, both of them sharing his sorrow and his pain, sharing every part of the burden he believed he would have to carry alone. Tripitaka, burying her fears and her memories, burying the last little part of her name that still belongs to someone else, and opening herself up to a fresh new start. Sandy, laying to rest a creature who was loved, who was cherished, who was wanted, a creature whose life and death meant more to two gods and a human than it will ever know.

They will grieve, yes, and they will mourn. And then they will rise, stronger and better and _together_ , and it will, in time, become something beautiful.

Holding Sandy close, watching the broad shadow of Monkey’s back as he chases the horizon, Tripitaka looks down at the sleeping body at their feet, and accepts.

*


	7. Chapter 7

*

They travel through the rest of the day, stopping rarely and making good time.

Sandy carries the sickly bird in her arms, both of them brave but faltering, and true to her word she refuses to let Monkey get close. He tries a couple of times, impatience overpowering his better reason in the moments when she starts to lag behind, but she shoos him away each time, showing her teeth and growing almost feral, hissing and growling and making herself so completely unapproachable that eventually he just rolls his eyes and gives up.

Tripitaka watches in silence, biting her tongue and willing herself not to interfere. Wildness comes so naturally to Sandy, and it is so easy for her to push and shove and keep the others at a distance; she doesn’t seem to realise that she’s softening at the same time, that her growls are less pained now than they’ve ever been, her teeth less sharp, that even as she fights and freezes somehow she is radiating warmth. Monkey is as oblivious as she is, but it’s in him as well, a smile behind his eyes, the fondness as he shakes his head and leaves her alone, the empathy, the understanding, the wordless affection simmering under both their skin, even in these moments of rejection.

They may not recognise the shift in themselves, but Pigsy certainly sees it in them, and he’s not shy about saying so.

He matches pace with Tripitaka, huffing and puffing with his usual out-of-shape breathlessness, but the strain of exertion doesn’t dampen his smile at all as he says, in a low, conspiratorial whisper, “You’ll have your hands full, you know.”

Tripitaka splutters. “I have no idea—”

“—what I’m talking about, right?” He laughs through his tiredness. “The three of you, I bloody swear. Not an ounce of difference between you.”

Well, there’s no arguing with that. “They’re alike in a few ways,” she admits with a wry smile. “Maybe I’ve picked up some of their bad habits?”

“You _think_?” For all his derision, his eyes are as soft as theirs as he watches them, and grow softer still when he turns to look at her instead. “One of them is bad enough, you know. Both at the same time?” He whistles, low and teasing. “I hope you know what you’re setting yourself up for, little monk.”

“I’m not…” She coughs again, heat flooding to her face. “That is to say, _we’re_ not… I mean, _it’s_ not—”

“Really?” He doesn’t bother trying to hide his amusement. “All this moon-eyed rubbish between the three of you, all bloody day, and you’re seriously throwing the ‘it’s not like that’ card at me?”

She shrugs, flushing a little. She feels exposed and vulnerable, but where she expects to find shame as well there’s nothing there at all. “I don’t know,” she concedes, with only a fraction more honesty. “It’s complicated. There’s a lot of…”

“Feelings. Right.” He makes a face, a sort of nostalgic grimace laced with fondness. Tripitaka doesn’t need to ask to know what — _who_ — he’s thinking about. “Yeah, I get that. Bloody feelings’ll get you every time. But at least they’re all flowing in the same direction. Yours, his, hers, all of you. It’s a damn good start.”

“It’s a lot,” Tripitaka admits, not for the first time. “They both feel so much, so powerfully, and all the time. And I’m not sure if I’m…”

She stops, though, because there are so many ways to finish that thought, so many different parts of herself she’s still so unsure of, and she has no idea where to begin.

It’s not that she doesn’t know what she feels, or how, or why; it’s just that she’s not sure how to process it all, what to make of it and how to navigate her place it it. She lived so much of her life under the protection of monks and holy men, keeping the company of scrolls and scriptures and books, and never sparing thought for—

Well.

This. 

All of it.

Gods, not just one but two, and all the power and beauty and breathless emotion that comes with them.

Tripitaka doesn’t know where to begin. Loving is easy, even in two or three or four different directions. But turning that love into something tangible, into Monkey’s arms around her waist, Sandy’s face buried in her chest, the two of them holding her and holding each other, the _three_ of them tangled together, safe and warm and—

 _That_.

Love is the easiest thing in the world to feel. But to live it, to breathe it, to make it a part of herself, her world, her everything…

That is more than a little terrifying.

“Don’t ruin a good thing by overthinking it,” Pigsy chides, reading the conflict on her face. “You’re already there. Even a big, useless lug like me can see it.”

She chuckles at his self-deprecation, but the easy mirth doesn’t last as long as usual. Her gaze falls — automatically by now — on the others striding ahead, Monkey in the lead with square shoulders and a stiff spine, all long strides and tight muscles, and Sandy trailing some distance behind, weighed down by the precious cargo in her arms.

“We’re not there yet,” Tripitaka murmurs, low and conspiratorial, for Pigsy’s ears only. “There’s still one thing we need to get through.”

“Right.” His expression darkens for a moment, eyes brimming with pre-emptive grief. “The little whatsit.”

“Mm.” All of a sudden, she feels nearly as breathless as him, a terrible pressure squeezing inside her chest, making it hard to keep walking. “I don’t… they’ve got a lot to work through. Both of them. And I’m not…”

 _I’m not a part of that_.

But she doesn’t say it, because she knows it’s not really true. She is a part of it, perhaps even the most important part, and that’s not about to change simply because she’s afraid to admit it.

She was the catalyst for both of their feelings, Monkey’s grief and Sandy’s pain, everything that has brought them to this point. She is the reason Sandy was forced to relive her own abandonment in the first place, the reason she can’t bear to watch another creature — even that one, doomed though it is — be discarded to face the same lonely fate that left her so broken. She is the reason Monkey is afraid to face his grief, the reason he’s got so much to grieve in the first place.

It feels wrong, embracing them both while they cry through the pain she caused. 

It feels…

 _She_ feels—

“It’s like what you said,” Pigsy says, nudging his way gently back into her thoughts, cutting off the darker ones before they can take root. “Or what your Scholar said, I guess. Stuff happening for a reason, all that optimism stuff. You know? If it’s good enough for a washed-up old has-been god, it’s damn well good enough for a smart young human with her whole life ahead of her.” His smile is like the sun, warm and nourishing and just a little bit too bright. “Maybe take a leap of faith on him being right, eh?”

Tripitaka smiles, lit up by the thought, almost in spite of herself.

It doesn’t take much of a leap to find faith in the Scholar. It never did, even when he was alive and she took for granted that he always would be, when she was young and brave and rebellious and thought nothing would ever change. Even in the rare, quiet moments when she was like Sandy, retreating into herself and hiding from the world she was so sure wanted to hurt her. Even in the moments — more common by far — when she more was like Monkey, arrogant and brash and believing she was invulnerable.

And yes, even in the moments when she was like both of them, like the very worst of them, angry and frightened, stubborn and defensive and moody. Still, even then, the Scholar would find the best in her, and she would believe in him.

She looks up at Pigsy now, touches his arm and lets some of her warmth — _his_ warmth, the Scholar’s, even now — flow into him. The contact is easy and comfortable; it’s so different to the way she touches Monkey or Sandy, but no less powerful for being simpler.

With Monkey, she is always holding fast and tight, grasping and grabbing and gripping, like her touch is the only thing keeping him on the ground, a tether to the mortal world for a god who is so much more powerful than she will ever truly understand. With Sandy, it’s like trying to hold water; elusive, evasive, a little bit intangible, she flows and drifts and comes apart under her hands, like the sand that shares her name.

With Pigsy, it’s just contact, just touch, just a moment. Nothing more, nothing less, no depth and no hidden meaning, no passion or power or fear. It’s her hand on his arm, it’s his palm on her back or shoulder; he supports her and she strengthens him and they steady each other, but their hearts remain where they are, separate and all their own. Where the others make her feel like she’s floating — on the air or in the water, depending on which one of them — with Pigsy she feels safe and steady, with her feet firmly on the ground.

She thinks she’s going to need a lot of that feeling in the coming days. And, indeed, the coming lifetime.

“I don’t know if it was meant to be,” she says to him, confessional but intimate. “You falling asleep during your watch. Sandy finding that egg, Monkey getting angry about it. Any of it, all of it. I don’t know if it was fated to happen or if it just did. But I think…” Her heart kicks in her chest, and he steadies her with a hand on her back. Simple, comfortable, grounding, and utterly perfect. “Whether it was meant to happen or not, I think it needed to.”

He smiles. For the first time, he seems to have found a measure of peace with himself.

“You know,” he murmurs, with a smile that is all his own, “I think you might be right.”

*

The creature clings to life until the sun goes down, and there, with the remains of the day, it dies.

It is a fitting moment, as if the poor wretched thing somehow understands the poignancy of its passing, the heavy weight its life and death carries for the strange two-legged beasts who brought it into the world and carried it so far. It dies as it lived: silent and still, drawing the warmth out of anyone who touches it.

Tripitaka is not there when it happens, and neither is Monkey. She doesn’t know whether to be thankful for that, or regretful.

They’ve stopped to make camp, soaking up the last few hours of daylight, and the two of them have ventured a short way away, as they so often do, to gather firewood; they return less than half an hour later to find Pigsy standing over Sandy with a sober look on his face, one hand resting at the small of her back as she lays the creature’s lifeless body on the ground.

She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to. Her shoulders are shaking, and when she lifts her head, heavy with grief, there are a thousand prayers veiled in the shadows behind her eyes.

Seeing the look on her face, Tripitaka’s heart sort of cracks open. It is a quiet, personal thing, the feeling that flows into its chambers, and she does not try to voice it aloud.

Monkey, of course, has no such reservations. He stops dead in his tracks, firewood clattering to the floor as his arms lose all their strength, and the fire that ignites behind his eyes is a horror and a tragedy all at once.

Jaw white with tension, he rasps, “When?”

Sandy doesn’t answer. She bows her head over the still, empty body, perhaps not even realising that he’s there at all, and her shoulders shake and shake and shake.

There is a soft sort of relief in Pigsy’s eyes when he turns and sees them, like he’s been awaiting their return with dread and sorrow and now that they’re back he can relinquish his place to those who should be here instead. He pats Sandy’s back a couple of times, gently compassionate, then takes a long step back, quietly handing the situation over to them.

“Not long,” he says to Monkey, then he bows his head and moves away.

Monkey nods, clapping a hand on Pigsy’s broad shoulder as they pass each other, and though they don’t exchange any more words Tripitaka can see the shift in the way they look at each other. No more resentment in Monkey’s eyes, no more blame or judgement, no harsh words; he nods, grasps Pigsy’s shoulder, nods, then lets him go in silence. A thousand words seem to pass between them in that moment, and though none of them are intended for Tripitaka’s ears, still she hears the important ones: forgiveness, respect, friendship.

A nod, a moment, and Pigsy is gone, murmuring something about making use of that firewood. And then—

And then it’s just the three of them.

No.

The _four_ of them.

The—

The body is so still.

So _still_.

And Sandy, bent over it with shuddering limbs, is not still at all but she is utterly, deafeningly silent. If she’s crying, she gives no sign, not the slightest sob or sniffle, nothing at all. It’s like all the sound has vanished from her, like she’s bled it out and poured it into that poor, lifeless creature just as she bled and poured all the warmth from her body, her bones, her blood…

Tripitaka doesn’t know what to do.

Going by the look on his face, neither does Monkey, but at least he does something. He takes care to keep his distance, to not look at the body, or even really at Sandy, but at least he — unlike Tripitaka — is able to find his voice.

“Did…” He stops, struggling and strangled-sounding, then coughs and tries again. “Did he suffer?”

Sandy doesn’t look up.

“No.” The word is a moan, hoarse and harrowed, but Tripitaka doesn’t hear any trace of tears in her voice. “She was just tired. That’s all. She was tired.”

She swallows audibly. Monkey does too, echoing the unpleasant noise, and says, “Right.”

Finally, with an obvious effort, Sandy lifts her head. Her eyes are bright, reflecting the still-setting sun, but there are no tears in them either. It is so rare to see them so void of water; somehow, it makes them seem even sadder.

“Was it?” she whispers.

Monkey has no answer.

He turns away, shoulders stiffening, tension cording up his neck. Tripitaka watches, wondering wordlessly if he’s thinking of Gwen, recalling her final moments, the poison clouding behind her eyes as she faded, faded, faded. She was tired, too, and so desperate to rest, but there was pain in her as well, deep and centuries long.

Tripitaka remembers the moments that came first, the shadows gathering like storms behind her eyes, the frozen tremors in her palm when she reached up with all her strength to touch her face and whisper her final words; Tripitaka could feel the poison thrumming through her veins, setting fire to the point of contact, and she thought, tortured and tormented and wracked with guilt, _it should have been me_.

Gwen suffered terribly. She suffered alone for centuries in that cursed, demon-infested forest, and then she suffered in the most unspeakable pain from a poison that was never hers to endure.

 _She died for me,_ Tripitaka choked at the time, and watched, feeling raw and numb, as Monkey turned away, unable to endure the empty space where his enemy-turned-friend took her final breath.

She wonders if he’ll be able to endure the space left here, now, when this creature is buried and its spirit departed, when all of his lies and denials and ‘I don’t care’ are buried along with it.

Time will answer that one, she thinks sadly. But now…

Now, she moves. She has to, because he’s not, because Sandy isn’t moving either, because she’s still not crying, because she’s still shaking and holding herself still, because she is hurting and she needs someone to touch her. 

Tripitaka takes a deep breath, steadying herself, then steps forward to kneel at her side.

She lays a hand on her back, fingers spread and palm flat, and she traces the lines of her ribs, and she catches the rhythm of her breathing, stuttering and laboured, and she does the one thing that Monkey cannot: she gazes down at the poor, dead creature, and she shares the loss and the grief and the pain.

“I’m sure she knew,” she says, as gently as she can, “that you wanted her to live.”

The words offer no comfort. Instead, to her surprise, Sandy just shakes her head.

“I told her she didn’t have to,” she says hoarsely. “She was so tired, Tripitaka. So tired. And I think… if I’d forced her to live, I think she would have suffered. I think…” Her voice cracks, but she still doesn’t cry. “She was so weak and so tired, and she still needed so much warmth. She needed so much, _so much_ , and I didn’t have any more to give…”

Above them both, still keeping his distance, Monkey bites off a low, dangerous growl.

“I did,” he hisses, serrated and knife-sharp. “You know that. Why didn’t you let me?”

Tripitaka flinches on Sandy’s behalf. “Monkey,” she says, as sharp as she can to try and cut through his rising anger, unravel and pick it apart before it swells into something none of them can smother. “You know why.”

It doesn’t work. He knows the truth as well as any of them, she’s sure of it, but he’s resisting, fighting it with everything he has in him, trying to hold back the tide of his grief, and he will not allow himself to see reason now. He can’t afford to, not if he wants to keep the flood at bay, not if he wants to keep himself from grieving and mourning and feeling too much.

“Because she’s stubborn,” he spits. “Because she’s jealous.” His eyes ignite, flashing fire, and Tripitaka is relieved that Sandy’s head is still bowed, because the look he shoots her is deadly. “Because she’s _stupid_.”

Tripitaka recoils again, but Sandy doesn’t. She is so, so still, and she still seems unable to lift her head and look him in the eye. The muscles of her back twitch against Tripitaka’s hand, but she still doesn’t cry, still doesn’t move, still doesn’t show any sign of being a part of the world at all.

“Do you really believe you could have saved her?” she asks, distant and disjointed.

“I could have at least _tried_ , you stubborn idiot! I could have—”

“And then she would have died in your arms instead of mine.”

“You don’t know that!” His voice is pitchy, shot through with grief and rage; it is a strange thing, Tripitaka thinks, to see him so openly emotional and Sandy so subdued. “You’re the one who said it would survive!”

Sandy stands. Slowly, wobbling just a little under the weight of her emotions, but she holds herself upright without any help, and when she pushes herself into Monkey’s space, forcing him to look her in the eye, she isn’t the one blinded by tears.

“And _you_ ,” she says, with terrifying calm, “are the one who _knew_ she would not.”

The silence that follows is an explosive thing, like the moment after a terrible earthquake or the silence that comes after a storm. All of Monkey’s anger and self-protection burn away into nothing, the fire in his eyes extinguished by the cool water in Sandy’s, and for a moment there is nothing in him at all.

Then it’s over, and he comes back to himself, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, horrified and sickened and half-wild, and takes a lurching, stumbling step backwards. He looks at her like she’s just reached into his chest and torn out his heart, like he’s still adjusting to the sensation of being without one, the loss and the pain and—

And then, without warning, his legs give out.

He falls to his knees, the impact throwing up dirt and damp grass, and as his body shakes and shudders with the force of it, he throws back his head and _howls_.

The force of it drives Tripitaka backwards. Sandy, meanwhile, flinches and goes deathly pale, panic seizing hold of her body and leaving her paralysed.

It lasts only a moment, the paralysis, but in that moment a dozen different shades of helplessness paint their way across her face. Confusion, disorientation, terror, and a whole lot more besides. She wants so badly to help him, Tripitaka can see, to offer a balm for his grief and suffering, the depthless pain that she knows she caused, but she is lost and broken, drowning in the mire of social ineptitude, of a lifetime without contact, without connection, without ever knowing how to communicate with other people. She is frozen, devastated, desperate—

But only for a moment.

Then, as though a torch has been lit inside of her, she leaps into action like a possessed thing. She is at his side before Tripitaka even sees her move, dropping to her knees as well and crouching beside him with open arms and an open heart. Her hands are shaking so hard, filling the space between their bodies like she doesn’t really know what to do with them, like she’s forgotten how to use them at all. Tripitaka watches her struggle with herself, the fear of contact clashing with the part of her that knows and vaguely understands that touch is supposed to offer comfort.

“Monkey,” she says, in a low, tremulous voice.

His howling breaks off instantly.

He whirls, staring with wild, rolling eyes. He is distraught, utterly out of control, and Tripitaka half-expects him to throw himself at Sandy, fists and curses flying, roaring like a wounded lion, like the anguished, heartbroken thing he is, blaming her for all his pain and his grief, for all the emotion that’s taking hold of him, holding tight to his throat and his heart.

He doesn’t, though. He just stares at her, angry and upset, like he’s trying desperately to understand.

“You _idiot_ ,” he rasps, shaking. “We could have… _I_ could have…”

“No, you couldn’t.” Still low, but she’s not quite so shaky now. It’s like the tremors are bleeding out of her and into him; she is still, he is shaking, and it’s all so backwards. “You knew this, Monkey, long before I did. Don’t let yourself be blinded by what you wish was true.”

She turns as she speaks, looking at Tripitaka, and for just a moment her preternatural stillness seems to waver.

Tripitaka sees the memory behind her eyes, shimmering like sunlight on water, and it makes her ribs squeeze at her lungs to feel it strike at her as well. _People believe what they want to believe_ , Sandy told her at the North Water, and she looked so hollow, so resigned to being abandoned yet again; she turned around and she walked away, determined this time to leave first, before she could be discarded once again by the side of the road. Her footsteps were silent as she left, her body rigid and deathly still, and all Tripitaka could do was stand there and watch and try not to cry.

Then, not now.

Now, she has more power. Now, she will not stand by, idle and silent, while Sandy is in pain.

She breathes her name, “Sandy,” a whisper like a promise, like the most important promise in the world, and takes a long, urgent step towards her.

Sandy, meanwhile, just shakes her head and turns away again. It’s different this time, though, not for herself but for others, and there is empathy and passion and love in her voice when she shrugs off the sound of her name and replaces it with another.

“Monkey,” she whispers, and sees only him.

Tripitaka turns, following her gaze, and she sees a very different truth reflected in his eyes, pain like storms shaking an ocean, massive waves hurled against cliff walls, tearing off chunks of rock and destroying anything in their path. Death, its inevitability like a blade carving up his insides, leaving him rocked and wracked and wounded. His Master dying in his arms, Monkey shaking and sobbing, begging reality to bend to his will, for the truth to twist itself into something kinder, something more fair.

 _You’ll recover_ , he whispered, desperate and blind with hope. _Everything will be as it was_.

But it wasn’t. 

Not then, and not now either.

Monkey could not bring his Master back with the force his of love alone, and he cannot return the spark of life to a dead bird’s spirit simply because grieving is too painful.

He knows that. He knew it then, and he knows it now. He has known it for longer than he will ever admit.

And yet, now just like then, he lashes out at the only target he has. He spins, moving by instinct, hard and keen, and he shoves Sandy back with all the strength he has in him.

“You should have let me try!”

Sandy goes down hard, but she doesn’t complain and she doesn’t try to get back up. She lies there, gazing up at the sky, the orange-red glow as the sun bleeds its last, and just like before she doesn’t move.

“You’ve suffered enough loss,” she murmurs at the sky. “Watched too many spirits fading while you hold them in your arms and beg them to live. You have been burdened with this moment, Monkey, too many times already. Again and again and again, you have carried the bodies of those you care about. Hers, I could carry myself.”

“Idiot.” The word lacks venom this time; to Tripitaka’s sad human ears, it sounds almost affectionate. “Not _alone_. You didn’t have to do it alone.”

“Wasn’t alone,” Sandy says, still gazing up at the heavens. She sounds dazed and disjointed, and Tripitaka wonders how much of her is still with them and how much is up there, drifting and dizzy and dreaming. “I told her that. I told her that she was loved, that she was cherished, that she would be missed. I told her, and when her spirit left her body it knew that it was not alone. That…” Her voice shatters, then, and so does the stillness; she’s shaking again, right down to her bones. “That’s all I wanted. From the very beginning. It’s all I ever wanted.”

And then, at long last, she rolls over, buries her face in the damp cool grass, and starts to cry.

Monkey is crying again too. Eyes dark and glimmering, tiny grief-shaped diamonds glinting under the setting sunlight, he covers them with his arm, hiding them away as his body shudders with deep, resonant sobs.

Biting down on her instincts, Tripitaka does not approach either one of them.

She wants to go to them both, to take them into her arms and cry with them, but she knows it’s not her place. 

Not yet.

Not while Monkey is sobbing, five centuries’ worth of grief and loss wrenching out from his cracked and aching heart. Not while Sandy is crying too, silent and stubborn and shaking, shaking, shaking. Not while they’re both locked in their own separate sorrows, their private, personal pains; it’s not her place to be a part of that. Not his, not hers, not…

Not _yet_.

Later, yes.

Later, when this first wave has passed, she will hold them both and cry with them and share their grief and their pain and everything else. Later, they will cry together, the three of them; they will cry together and mourn together and feel together and love together. Later, together, they will dig a grave and lay to rest the poor dead creature and all the warmth it stole and all the warmth it poured into three broken, separate hearts, and together they will embrace the life and love it left behind.

Later, yes, it will be their moment.

But this one is Monkey’s, and it is Sandy’s, and Tripitaka’s place now is only to watch them and ache for them, and love them.

*

And she does.

All of those things, yes, but the last one most of all.

She knew it already of course, but it doesn’t really hit her, the depth and the power of it, until ‘later’ is ‘now’, until they’re gathered around the spot they’ve chosen to be the creature’s grave, all of them, together in every possible way.

She loves them both, and she loves them deeply, and she knew this, of course she knew it, but she has never felt it, or anything else, as profoundly as she feels it right now.

Sandy is quiet again, dry-eyed and pensive and perfectly still; the contrast is striking after two days of freezing and shivering, and Tripitaka is startled by the warmth in her skin, the blood flowing freely when she takes her hand, the colour finally touching her face. She should look vibrant, full of health at last, but she doesn’t; she looks drawn and hollow, almost more ghostly now than she did when she was half-drowned. Her body is hers again, but she poured more than just warmth into that poor doomed creature and its effect will linger for some time yet.

Monkey, meanwhile, is neither still nor ghostly. He is angry and tense, unable to stop moving, and his eyes are dark with tears and rimmed with red. He still sniffles every now and then, still sheds the occasional tear, but he is no longer ashamed to let them see it; he does not drive back his tears with violence now, or brush them away with shame and rage, but sheds them with dignity, proud even as he hurts. He stands with them and he mourns with them, and he holds their hands, Tripitaka’s and Sandy’s, like they’re his only tether to the world of the living.

Tripitaka, stood quietly between them as Pigsy digs in the dirt, feels a sort of tearing in her heart, sorrow and hope, death and rebirth all at once. Sandy’s hand is fragile, a spiderweb of sinew and bone, her pulse delicate and weak against her fingers; Monkey’s grasp is powerful and passionate, a thrum of power against her palm, hammering in rhythm with his grief and his anger. They are so different, in their touches as in every other part of them, but holding them both so close she finds she can no longer imagine having one without the other.

When Pigsy is finished digging, Sandy steps forward to lay the body down. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t seem to see anything, not even the creature leaving her arms for the very last time, but when she speaks there is perfect, beautiful clarity in her voice.

“She was loved,” she says, mournful but strong. “Even if she never knew her true family, she had one in us.”

Monkey bites the inside of his cheek. Tripitaka watches the myriad losses colour his face, anger and sorrow and regret. He squeezes her hand, a drumbeat of grief hammering against her pulse-point, and turns away as the creature settles into its final resting place.

“Yeah,” he whispers, eyes on the horizon, “she did.”

Sandy starts, blinking up at him in surprise. “She?”

His jaw turns pale; his throat convulses. He does not meet her eye, but Tripitaka can feel the emotion beating in his blood, his heartbeat still thrumming against her skin, and she aches with both sorrow and joy.

“You’re the one who knew her,” he says to Sandy, and the words hang heavy with a hundred big and small meanings. “If you say ‘she’, who am I to argue?”

Sandy stares at him, mouth half-open. She looks sort of paralysed, like she’s lost the ability to move or speak.

“I…” she starts, but the rest dies unspoken, strangled in her throat.

Monkey nods, swallowing back another wash of emotion. “Yeah.”

Smiling through her tears, Tripitaka tugs gently on both of their hands, drawing them all close together. Sandy and Monkey are both unsteady, their bodies held taut for very different reasons, but Tripitaka doesn’t let the tension overpower either of them this time; she pulls them into her arms and she holds them both, close and tight and full of warmth.

“She was loved,” she whispers, the words bouncing off Monkey’s breastplate, tangling in Sandy’s hair, catching and locking and seizing in all the places that matter the most. “And so are you. Both of you.”

Sandy starts to shake. Her body wants so desperately to hide, but Tripitaka can hear her heart stammering against her ear and she knows that it does not.

“Yes,” she mumbles, and the word shakes as hard as her body. “ _Yes_.”

Monkey, for once, is the one holding himself in perfect stillness. His arms are bunched tight, clinging to both of them with power, with passion, the fear of loss and the certainty that he will throw himself into his own grave before he will risk losing either one of them.

“You’re both idiots,” he croaks, ragged and hoarse. “Stupid, sentimental, stubborn idiots.”

Sandy pulls back to look him in the eye. “Perhaps,” she says, thick with sorrow and love. “But we’re _your_ idiots.”

He cuffs her. Then he cuffs Tripitaka, even though she hasn’t actually said or done anything. Then, with great heavy sobs shaking his body all over again, he throws his arms back around them both.

“Yeah,” he says, through his tears. “You are.”

And he holds them and holds them and holds them, like all their lives depend on it.

*

Later, when the creature is buried, a single round stone placed atop the dirt to mark its passing, they gather around the fire, the four of them, to eat and talk and be alive.

It is just like every other night, and it is completely different.

Pigsy sits by himself, hunched as usual over the cooking pot as he works on the evening meal. He’s foraged enough roots and plants for something more substantial than cave mushrooms, though Tripitaka notes he’s uncharacteristically quiet about it. Deep in his own thoughts, perhaps, or else he just wants to give the rest of them some space and silence to process everything they’ve been through. Grief hangs heavy over them all, and maybe he feels, being the farthest removed from it all, that he has no place to share theirs.

Untrue, of course. Tripitaka sits as close to him as she dares, not speaking but keeping present, reminding him without words that he matters too, that he always will, no matter what happens between the rest of them. She smiles at him, and he smiles back, understanding in his usual way without the need to hear the words said. Now, as always, communication between them is seamless and joyously simple.

Monkey and Sandy sit on opposite sides of the fire, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Monkey is tense and brooding, and Tripitaka can see the myriad memories flickering in the firelight behind his eyes. Moments between him and his Master, between him and Gwen, maybe even a few between him and Davari; he keeps them to himself, but she watches their shadows flit across his face, soft and sharp and everything in between. One day, she’d like to hear all about them, the good and the bad, but that day is not today. When he’s a little more healed, when they all are, they can talk the night away, but for now his wounds are still too raw, and he needs to tend them in private.

Sandy is neither tense nor broody, but her stillness remains a strange, unexpected sight. She’s wrapped up in a blanket, gazing silently into the fire like she’s searching the embers for the bird’s wayward, wandering spirit; if she sees it there, she shows no sign, but the task seems to consume her completely. The blanket came at Monkey’s insistence — “if you think I’m going to be your personal heating pad again tonight, you can think again!” — but she allowed it without complaint. It is comforting to see her warm again, Tripitaka thinks privately; it is comforting to see her arms empty and her eyes damp, comforting to—

No.

It is comforting simply to be here.

All of them, separate but together.

It is comforting to know that Sandy is warm, it is comforting to watch Monkey brood and sulk and scowl, it is comforting to hear Pigsy’s quiet murmurings as he labours over the cooking pot.

All of it, every little piece of this world that is theirs.

Everything has changed, but somehow its shape remains the same. Tripitaka watches Monkey and she feels the fire in his eyes light up her heart; she watches Sandy and she feels the warmth right down to her bones. It is new and it is exciting and it is deeply tragic, but it brings a kind of familiarity, too, the sense of something that has always been there but hidden, a treasure submerged in the heart of a frozen, hellish lake, brought to the surface for the first time, to be cherished and protected and loved.

She feels heartbroken, but she feels whole.

The meal passes comfortably, if with the usual playful antagonism, Monkey commenting critically on Pigsy’s choice of seasonings, and Pigsy — somewhat understandably — throwing a cooking spoon at his head.

“I’d like to see you do a better job,” he gripes, mostly good-natured. “Or any job, for that matter.”

Monkey, catching the spoon one-handed and tossing it aside with his usual smug flourish, knows better than to argue with that; heavens forbid he actually offer to do the cooking himself for once.

“Whatever,” he huffs, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like you’re going anywhere, so why would I bother?”

Shrouded as they are in quips and jibes, the words carry real meaning: _don’t think we’re getting rid of you that easily, big guy_. Tripitaka watches Pigsy’s face closely, marking the surprise and the swiftly smothered relief. It’s one thing, she knows, to hear the words from her, but it is something else entirely to hear it from Monkey, who is known for being impulsive and impatient, who is not and never has been prone to forgiveness.

It is much, much more than a passing jab, and they all know it.

Pigsy coughs, flushing awkwardly. “Ah. Good to know, yeah.”

Monkey grunts again, but it’s a very different sound this time, soft and almost a little kind. “Don’t get too smug about it,” he remarks in a careful, shrouded voice. “You’ve still got a lot to make up for. And you can start by taking first watch.”

Even Tripitaka starts a little at that.

Pigsy, being rather less dignified even on a good day, chokes and splutters, unsure of how to respond. His eyes are wide, rippling with hope and poorly-suppressed panic. They’re all used to seeing fear on his face — he’s never hidden his tendency to cowardice — but it’s a very different sort of terror that blanches his skin now: not of demons or monsters or his ex-lover’s armies, but of the simple, open way Monkey is looking at him, the way he speaks, the carefully balanced gesture behind the words, an offer of forgiveness wrapped carefully in a shroud of the opposite.

Finally, sounding more than a little breathless, Pigsy manages, “Really?”

“You see anyone else around here?”

Pigsy opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “I mean… you’d trust me with that? After… well, you know…”

He trails off, arms spread wide in a helpless, shamefaced gesture.

Monkey makes a grand show of his indifference, but Tripitaka — and, no doubt Pigsy — can see that his shrug is as weighted as his words.

“Sure,” he mutters, entirely too careless to be convincing. “It’s not like there’s anything dangerous around here anyway.”

Despite herself, Tripitaka grimaces at that. So far as they knew at the time, the same was equally true of the underground caverns.

But that’s not the point, of course, and so she keeps her reticence carefully hidden.

“You are dreadful at the task,” Sandy chimes in. She shrinks down as she speaks, huddling deeper into her blanket like she’s trying to make herself even smaller than she already is. Being a part of something — even a conversation as simple as this one — always comes easiest to her when she is able to hide. “But you will never improve without practice.”

“I…” He coughs, rather awkwardly. “Well. Fair point, I guess.”

“Mm.” If her expression changes, Tripitaka can’t make it out through the shadows covering her face. “Besides which, your ineptitude was not entirely without its rewards.”

She doesn’t look up — in fact, she seems to hide herself away even more as she speaks — but still Tripitaka is sure she sees a flood of colour climbing up her neck.

Monkey, being less sentimental in general, merely grunts and says, “What she said.”

It is a striking contrast, Sandy’s shyness and Monkey’s too-casual indifference, the two of them failing quite spectacularly to hide their deeper feelings, their blushes and their softness and their smiles. Tripitaka, swallowing down a delirious mix of heartbreak and heart-warmth, longs to wrap her arms around them both.

“Things happen for a reason,” she whispers, once more with feeling. “We can’t always see the whole of it at first.”

Sandy hums, self-conscious and sweet. “If I had,” she muses, almost to herself, “I would have run from it. I think I would have been dreadfully afraid. So I’m thankful I didn’t. I’m thankful I didn’t have the opportunity to become frightened, to run away and hide from what I needed to do. I’m thankful…” A low sound wrenches out of her; Tripitaka thinks it might be a sob, but she can’t tell for sure without seeing her face and Sandy will never expose herself in a moment like this. “I am thankful.”

Tripitaka swallows again, aching with tenderness. “So am I.”

Monkey hunches his shoulders, carefully bottling up his own feelings and storing them safely out of sight. He has felt enough for one conversation, Tripitaka suspects, and smiles.

“ _I_ won’t be thankful,” he mutters, all faux-arrogance to cover up the love and pain, “until _he_ learns how to properly season a soup.”

Tripitaka has no idea where Pigsy finds a second cooking spoon, but his aim has definitely improved; this one hits home, bouncing off Monkey’s head with a loud _thunk_.

She watches, shaking her head and biting down on her smiles, as he snatches it up and throws it right back, as Pigsy catches it with a deftness that surprises them all, as the two of them settle into their usual playful-antagonistic back and forth, bickering and scrapping and not-so-secretly affectionate, as though nothing was ever wrong between them at all, as though neither one of them has ever made a mistake in his life, or held a grudge, or felt anything deeper than this.

It is a joy to see. It is—

“Nice.” Sandy, breaking into her head, as though sensing her thoughts and quietly adding her own. “To see them getting along.”

Tripitaka chuckles a little at the flat simplicity of the word; it is not like Sandy to be so unpoetic, but perhaps she’s exhausted her supply for the day. Still, for all the lack of beauty in her choice of words, she is not wrong: it is a deeply comforting thing to see.

Normality, at least by their strange, slightly dysfunctional definition of it. _They_ may have changed, the three of them and the way they feel for each other, but _this_ has not and never will.

It’s a reminder, as simple and unsubtle as the word, that their days will always end here, like this: with food and a fire, and the four of them together.

Tripitaka smiles, filled by more than the food, warmed by more than the fire.

She looks at Monkey, rolling his eyes and pretending he’s not still grieving, at Pigsy, shaking his head and grumbling under his breath, observant and aware of all the little things lurking beneath the surface but ever an expert in pretending he doesn’t. She looks at Sandy, watching them both with her face hidden behind her hair and her cloak and her blanket, distant but present, a little bit apart but still so much a part of this, of them; still smiling, Tripitaka leans over the fire and gently takes her hand.

“Yeah,” she says, soft and sweet. “It’s nice to see.”

*

And then, at last, night.

Night, full and complete, with its cascading stars, its flowing wisps of cloud, its endless dark. Night, and the crackling of the fire as it grows lower, dimmer, softer, the snapping of grass and twigs as Pigsy circles the camp, keeping himself awake.

It is a beautiful night, serene and tranquil and quietly ethereal, the perfect farewell to a day that touched and transformed them all so completely.

They’ve never lain down together like this before. Consciously, deliberately, their bodies all within touching distance, _together_ wholly and truly, in sense of the word.

It’s not really something they’ve even thought about about before. Even in the closest of quarters, there has always been plenty of space to go around, even when Pigsy takes up half of it for himself, and as a group they’ve always been respectful of little things like boundaries and personal space. Some of them need more of it than others, but it has always been second nature, each of them finding a space that’s theirs and keeping it.

It served Tripitaka well, she recalls, when she was pretending to be a boy, and she knows that the others felt the same way too. Monkey, who sprawls out in all directions with his whole body, who likes to claim his space for himself, selfish and hungry and powerful, and Sandy, who always keeps one foot in the shadows, ready to run or hide at all times. Even when necessity forced them all into close quarters, even when they were close enough to almost-touch, it was never quite like this.

This…

This is very, very different.

This is…

It is Monkey, acting without thought, flopping down at Tripitaka’s side and stretching his lean body out in the cool damp grass with less than a breath’s space between their bodies. And it is entirely new but not at all strange, the way he throws his arm over her waist, possessive and protective, like there’s no other place in the world it belongs.

And maybe there isn’t, at that. Tripitaka feels her muscles and her nerves responding, her limbs going limp and calm under the weight of him, relaxing as if by some old forgotten instinct. A part of her, long buried, feels like it’s found something it hadn’t known was missing.

On her other side, Sandy. She keeps a distance, as usual, but this time she’s twitching slightly where she lies, like she wants to come closer but can’t bring herself to move. Like maybe a part of her still doesn’t believe she has any right to be there. Tripitaka is sure she’ll find her way back into her arms in her sleep, instinct taking over in unconsciousness as it did before, but she doesn’t want her to feel like that she only has a place there when she can blame it on being asleep.

She shuffles closer, bringing Monkey with her, and finds Sandy’s trembling hand.

“There’s room for you too,” she says. “Here. With us.”

Sandy flinches, resisting with wide, frightened eyes. “I know. I know that. I do, I know, I do…”

But she still doesn’t move any closer.

She’s still scared, Tripitaka realises, feeling the pulse hammering against her fingers. She is so, so scared of waking up alone, unwanted and rejected, abandoned all over again; she must know it won’t happen, but the fear is a violent and visceral thing and it overpowers what little reason she possesses. It consumes her, makes her shudder and shiver, and Tripitaka feels an echoing tremor rippling through Monkey’s arm as well, their bodies so close he can’t hide it.

He’s afraid too. That’s why he’s holding her so tightly, why his arm is a dead weight across her ribs, why he’s wrapping himself around her with every last part of himself, his arms and his body and his strong, powerful heart, clinging and clutching and keeping her close, keeping her _safe_.

He is afraid of waking up alone too, just as Sandy is, if for very different reasons. Where she is afraid of being abandoned, left again on the roadside, unwanted and worthless, he is afraid of being bereaved, of feeling Tripitaka’s breath stop under his hands, of feeling the life and spirit bleeding out of her fragile human body and knowing that there’s nothing he can do to stop it, of revisiting the losses he’s endured over and over again.

For both of them, they’ve only known love to end one way.

Small wonder, she thinks sadly, that they’re both terrified.

In the space between them, she aches. For Sandy and her shy, shaking distance, for Monkey and his fierce, desperate closeness, for their terrible fears, irrational but understandable, for the part of her that knows them so deeply, so intimately that her own heart quakes a little bit too.

“I’m here,” she whispers, turning her head to press a small, promising kiss to the crook of Monkey’s neck. Then, turning back to Sandy, squeezing her hand so tight she’s sure it must hurt a little, again she whispers, “I’m here.”

Sandy nods, eyes wide and wet, and holds onto her hand like it’s the only safe place in the whole world.

Monkey, behind her, presses in a little closer. Close enough that he can reach across Tripitaka’s small form over her and past her and around her, close enough that he can reach for Sandy’s hip, close enough that he can pull her in, drag her slim, shaking body through the space she can’t seem to close by herself, close enough that he can pour all his power and passion and protection into her as well, into both of them, wrapped up together in his long, powerful arms.

“Idiot,” he chides, and his laughter is as tearful as Sandy’s soft, smothered sob.

Nestled between them, Monkey’s warm muscle and Sandy’s cold bones, Tripitaka closes her eyes and breathes. She feels alive like this, safe and protected and unfathomably loved; there is tragedy in their shared heartbeats, loss and fear and grief and a thousand other pains, but those things belong now to all three of them, shared and made smaller by being held in more than one place, more than one heart.

Like them, Tripitaka knows loss; like them she knows pain, fear, grief, all of it. She has watched her home, her family, her everything disappear; she has been reborn from the ashes of the most terrible tragedies, brought back to life with a new name, a new identity, and a whole new purpose. The world is stretched out in front of her now, and though she still aches, every day, with every last part of her, she knows that the Scholar would be proud.

She has to believe that the Master would be proud of Monkey as well, and that Gwen would be proud of them both. She has to believe that somewhere out there in the endless, beautiful night, beyond the clouds and between the stars, their spirits are smiling.

She has to believe, too, for Sandy, that the poor, wretched creature she worked so hard to save — her Tripitaka, equally doomed — is up there with them, that it can see the love its tiny, fragile spirit brought to life, that it knows its brief, beautiful existence had meaning.

Perhaps things don’t happen for a reason. Perhaps they simply happen, and that’s the end of it. But Tripitaka will search for reasons within them even so, and she will find them because she is human and that is what humanity does. And if her own losses have taught her anything, it is the importance of finding faith and holding into hope. She has learned this very lesson well, and she will pour it, like warmth and life, like a spirit reborn, into the arms holding her now.

Monkey’s grief has given him strength and courage, has made him passionate and powerful; Sandy’s pain has filled her with more heart than Tripitaka has ever seen in anyone. They may never be free of the tragedies and traumas that made them that way, but it doesn’t matter. Tripitaka will love them and shelter them and keep them safe, just as they will dive into the depths again and again to save her.

She opens her eyes. Gazing up at the vast, star-sprinkled sky, she imagines she can see the shimmer of life, of their lost loved ones, all the hearts and souls and spirits that have touched them.

One day, she knows, hers will join them. Hopefully many years from now, after a lifetime filled with moments like this, but it will happen; it must, for she is human, as limited in body as she is limitless in spirit. And when that day comes — painful, yes, but inevitable — she takes comfort in knowing that they will have each other, that they will mourn and grieve and cry together just as they did today, that they will share the tears and the pain and the memories, that they will bury her body and celebrate her spirit and then lay down together, just like this.

A lifetime away, that day, if they’re lucky. A distant speck on the horizon, a space between the stars, among the spirits she loves so well, waiting with infinite patience for hers to join them.

When it happens, she hopes she will go gracefully. But until it does, she will live every day, every moment like it’s the only one in the world. She will relish them, the moments, the days, the thousand little lifetimes that make up the bigger one, and she will hold fast and tight to the things that matter, to these stubborn, tragic, beautiful gods that she loves so deeply and so completely.

She will live well, and she will love without fear.

And even if it takes a lifetime, she will teach them to do the same.

***


End file.
